Last Sunday we sat at work, staring at the computer screen, slurping away at soda and annoying the hell out of our boss. Last Sunday someone began muttering mindlessly and laughing like a lunatic at the thought that if work were a gun then the boss would be trigger happy.
I confess. I’m guilty. Last Sunday I was the potential psycho, slouched in my hard chair at work, cackling my head off as that very thought slipped through my mind. As my imagination kicked in, the cackling grew louder and my co-workers were probably thinking I’d finally lost it.
The whole losing my mind scenario began one Sunday when a very depressed, morbid, possibly anti-social writer pointed out that we’re alive for about 3,380 Sundays. Of course that’s if we manage to live to a ripe old age.
But here’s the thing, you and I perhaps spent 1,000 Sundays growing up then we spent the next 500 drunk and soon we’ll spend 600 or more regretting marriage if we haven’t done that already. So out of 3,380 Sundays we’re looking at 2,100 or close to that, wasted. Are you panicking yet? I am! I did! I will!
Sundays, once spent with a good novel in bed are now days spent working or sometimes sitting aimlessly hoping work would come or annoying the hell out of the boss. Every Sunday I learn something new. Last Sunday I learnt how to entertain myself but I have to work on not looking like a cackling lunatic. I make a point of learning a new skill every Sunday.
One Sunday I learnt that mini-skirts weren’t appreciated by some men because it reminded them of the old, ugly, scrawny legs they go home to everyday. They need to understand it’s what time does to legs.
Eating is another favourite Sunday activityl. What’s the point of living if you can’t have good grub? I’m willing to sacrifice some Sundays for the pleasure food brings. Are you?
I probably shouldn’t have told you about the whole Sunday craziness. It’ll make you forever conscious of time slipping away; of your good looks, if you ever had any, taking a hike and it’ll have some psychological effects as well. You’ll become a time sensitive psycho like me who trips out every time you think of how many Sundays you have left.
No matter how much I try to make my Sundays matter I just can’t. How can I appreciate my Sundays more? As I sat at work last Sunday cackling like a mad person, the answer hit me. The best way to spend Sunday is with family.
Well, it’s Sunday again tomorrow and I won’t be working. I’ll be spending time with the family. I’ll be listening to them bicker, wishing I could peel their skin off as they annoy the hell out of me (the boss must be grinning) and perhaps I might commit murder. Tomorrow will be the first Sunday I’ll be wishing I were at work! (srh.midnight@gmail.com)
