On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
Oh, Johnny, other than the use of illicit drugs, I couldn't agree more. Sundays seem to be the unlucky resting place for all of the frustrations, worries, and hurts that accumulate over the course of week and slide, sneaky and mean, into all hours of this 7th day. There are, of course, the practical tasks that can seem oppressive --all of those regular "life" chores, like making sure we have clean underwear and fruit in the refrigerator and that our bathroom isn't in such state that I'd refuse its use to a guest- that I usually leave for today. Then there are the special projects that I've kept a mental list of for oh, six months or so, that I keep meaning to tackle on a Sunday, like sharpen the knives, put photos in albums, and read something serious and scholarly. I know, these aren't exactly difficult things. Yet, inevitably, by 9 pm on most Sunday evenings, I am curled up on the couch, still unshowered and in stretchy pants, leafing through the newspaper weekly ads, feeling rather defeated over my bold forfeit to the day's To-Do List and vaguely apprehensive about being ready for the week ahead.