Saturdays are usually a blank canvas. I do not wake up to the alarm. I can sit and write as I savor my second or third cup of coffee. I am not rushing to finish this, or start that. It’s usually peace-filled and quiet.
But Sundays bring a more complex set of emotions. Another day to enjoy, but the reality that I am going to work on Monday intrudes more than I would like. By Sunday evening, I’m dreading Monday morning.
This has always been true. As a child, Sunday night meant watching”The Wonderful World of Disney.” I didn’t get to enjoy the show, because it meant Mom was putting my hair in pin curls (a painful process) for school the next day.
In college it meant no late night partying, because I had a 8:00am class bright and early Monday morning. As a young mother, Sunday night meant I would have to leave my baby with the sitter early in the morning and spend the rest of the week longing to be with him.
I love the weekend, but hate Sunday evenings.