I am writing this on a Sunday. Sundays make me feel uneasy. Actually, no, let me rephrase this: I hate Sundays. They suck. Argh. Anyone would think that with only two days available, any minute of a weekend would count, but honestly, it’s all downhill from Saturday night.
It must be the dread of things to come. I remember sitting around in the garden on a Sunday evening, moping and thinking about how only a few hours later, I’d have to get up and go to school. (I actually liked school.) But that doesn’t explain why I hate Sundays more than ever nowadays, with no work or school to go to on Monday. (Pushing your child out into the garden and throwing breadsticks at him isn’t real work.) While the meh-ness of Sundays hasn’t changed, the reasons have — as a child, I hated the thought of routine, whereas now I long for it. It’s not the Sunday night blues, it’s the whole day for me. On Sunday, the world comes to a standstill, and I can’t deal with that. There are no distractions, and I get bored. I also feel that now is my chance to get away and enjoy all the things I can’t do during the week, but most Sundays I don’t get to get away. Whatever it is, it’s misery. It’s like an itch I can’t scratch — a desire to get out and do stuff while the whole world has decided to take it easy. It’s eerily quiet, I can hear myself think, and that’s not a good thing on Sundays.
There’s this, of course, to say it much better than I ever could:
And it’s not the only one. This, the title song of my favourite movie, is equally gloomy.
So, what is it about Sundays that gets some people down? Is it merely an inherent meh-ness that gets buried under weekday activities and seizes its chance on the day of rest? Is it the comedown after a great Saturday night? Or do people simply enjoy Sundays too much, so much that the thought of Monday alone depresses them? According to a helpful study, it’s Sunday’s “specialness”: Being told to enjoy one day more than others, and to make the most of it, apparently backfires completely. (I love how this study was done with Germans, whose Sundays are even more bizarrely quiet than those of other countries.)
So that’s that then. No need to ask The Doors why a song about love has to be so incredibly bleak:
Johnny Cash knows, of course:
On a Sunday morning sidewalk
I’m wishing, Lord, that I was stoned
‘Cause there’s something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone
And there ain’t nothin’ short of dyin’
As half as lonesome as the sound
Of a sleepin’ city sidewalk
And Sunday mornings coming down
What’s the solution? Clearly, it’s to avoid any of the above songs. Try this (always try this, for the hair alone):
If all else fails, listen to something that hasn’t got anything to do with Sundays. Something fast. Something you can’t understand, but with a lot of swearing. Turn it up. Because, kurwa.
And then enjoy waking up on a Monday. Ah, Mondays. I can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t like them.