Ah, Sundays. A day that’s either a sweet escape or a looming shadow, right? I have always found Sundays a bit dreary. To borrow a whimsical thought from Douglas Adams in Life, The Universe, and Everything, it’s like living with a nagging immortal existential crisis that hits particularly hard on Sundays. That feeling of despair, which he humorously describes as “the long, dark teatime of the soul,” is something we can all relate to. Especially on those lazy Sunday afternoons when the chores are done, and your energy has packed its bags and left. I’m not sure about you, but here in Britain, that soul-teatime can feel especially dreary.
Sundays in My Childhood
Growing up in Britain, Sundays were like marathons of boredom. The concept of a restful day is rooted in the book of Genesis, where even God took a break after creating the universe in six days. But why did He need a day off? And why measure time in days when time itself didn’t even exist? These questions linger in the air like the smell of burnt toast. With shops closed on Sundays, we had to find entertainment ourselves.
Back in the day, we only had four TV channels—yes, just four! Sunday programming was a unique brand of torture. Picture this: an antique show that felt like watching paint dry, followed by a never-ending drama about the English Civil War’s impact on a tiny town. Then came Mastermind, where pale contestants answered obscure questions about cutlery history—because who doesn’t want to watch that? The absolute worst was Last of the Summer Wine, a so-called comedy about three elderly men wandering around Yorkshire. Picture this: one of them would inevitably crash a homemade contraption into a tree, while laughter echoed from the canned audience. It was like the BBC was on a secret mission to make us dread Monday mornings even more. Eventually, I’d retreat to my room, feeling utterly defeated.
The Adult Perspective on Sundays
As I grew up, I thought Sundays would become something to look forward to, but I was sorely mistaken. Modern conveniences like multi-channel television and Sunday shopping didn’t dilute the day’s existential weight. If anything, they amplified it. Picture yourself wandering through a farmer’s market, buying artisanal cheese, or waiting in line at a garden center clutching a plastic pond liner. Buying a hole in the ground—talk about bleak!
So why is Sunday so tough? After spending a whopping 1/7th of our lives in this existential purgatory, I’ve come to a few conclusions. Ironically, Sunday is a day of freedom. It’s the one day we can do whatever we want without obligations or predefined fun. It’s a mirror that reflects back at us, forcing us to confront the big, scary question: “What do I really want to do?”
With no responsibilities holding us back, we can finally address the deeper queries: “What do I genuinely desire?” Not what society tells us to want, but what truly makes us tick? This ties into the even bigger question that haunts us throughout our lives: “Who am I, really?”
Naturally, these questions are daunting. They shine so brightly that many of us run for cover. Weekdays present us with easy distractions and roles to play—whether it’s being the annoyed shopper or the lawn-mowing dad.
So there it is: perhaps we dread Sundays for the freedom they represent. They challenge us to live fully, to create, and to be better versions of ourselves. They beckon us to take risks, to explore new passions, and to truly exist.
Thanks, Sunday, but I’ll pass. I have a plastic pond liner to install and a quiet sobbing session to schedule.
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Summary
Sundays can be a tough day, often prompting deep existential crises as we confront who we are and what we truly want out of life. The day’s freedom can be overwhelming, leading us to reflect on our desires and identities—something many of us tend to avoid.