One of my favorite bloggers wrote about Sunday mornings this weekend. I read it this morning on my phone when I first woke up, part of the morning ritual, and had no idea that I’d end of blogging about the same topic just short hours later.Was it fate? Or did I have some free will here? That’s another blog. Anyway……
I have seriously conflicted feelings about Sundays for the following reasons:
1) They’re followed by Monday.
2) There won’t be another one for six more days.
3) It’s supposed to be a day of rest, but ends up a day to try to do all the stuff you thought you’d do this weekend, but haven’t done yet because you actually rested on Saturday.
4) Church. Love it, but it also feels like going to work sometimes. There are days when I feel like a toddler in the pew. I’ve come increasingly to blame our multi-tabbed world. If I could just open some other windows while Church was going on, maybe the time would go a bit faster. This leads me to the thought that our kids are doomed because I didn’t grow up with this crap and look how quickly it’s rewired me. Watch for the Horsemen.
5) My mood, already iffy on Sunday, is even more vulnerable to outside influences than usual. So, new window, some thoughts on mood and why it’s so moody.
1) Hormones. They’re the go-to whipping boy on this one. And don’t tell me that only women PMS. I’ve seen the men in my life do it plenty of times. I just can’t figure out if they’re on a 28-day cycle like the other half of the world.
2) Physicality. I’m not sure if that’s the right word, so let me describe it and maybe someone can give me a better word. I like to walk the dogs in the morning. In fact, I’m blaming those walks for some of my more touchy-feely posts of late. It’s quiet, the sun’s coming up, there’s a gentle mist hanging over the grass.
Well, here’s what happened this morning. Dogs out the door. Flip flops on feet. I’m wearing those babies as long as I can stand it because they’re a sure sign it’s not really fall yet. flip flop flip flop out the door. Huge puddle in the driveway. God damn it–oops, particularly bad to swear like that on Sunday–I left the sprinkler on last night and now I’ve created a small pond in my front yard. flip flop flip flop through freezing cold water to turn off the sprinkler. Deep breath, recover, recover. Call dogs from whatever small creature they’re sniffing out in the grass beside the house. Down the lane we go. Dogs veer off the path into the tall grass and are out of sight. I can hear them, but can’t see them. Now I have to call them and the sounds of my own shrill voice hollering their names breaks the sanctity of all that mist and sunrise that I was yammering about several sentences ago. Deep breath, they came back, we’re back on track. Admire the beauty of nature. God damn it–apologize to the Lord–they’re off again. A simple call doesn’t bring them back this time. They must have kicked up something. Yell from the diaphragm this time. I swear to God that the vibrations coming up from my diaphragm and issuing out of my mouth in the form of my shrill voice, louder this time and with that “I mean business” tone dispel any warm and fuzzies that dared remain after the sprinkler and first dog escape incidents. Now I just want to keep the damn dogs in the lane and get back to the house. The physical actions required to beller at the dogs like a fishwife have set my muscles into a new register and now I’m hunching and I’m muttering to myself. That’s what I mean by physicality. If we’d had a nice quiet walk in silence while I went into reveries about fall flowers, the warm fuzzies would have multiplied rather than evaporated. My diaphragm killed them.
3) Sleep. I had enough sleep last night according to the number of hours. But isn’t there some unwritten rule that a person should sleep in on Sunday? I woke up, of my own accord, at sunrise. How can a person be in a good mood when that happens? I tried to reel it back in by saying to myself, “Oh, now I can enjoy the sunrise while I walk the dogs.” We see where that got me.
All that and I haven’t even had to interact with another human yet. Which may be what saves me this morning. Blog and vent. Quietly eat my cereal. Read a little of my latest women’s fiction novel. And start to agonize over whether or not to go to Church.
I think only a movie and movie theater popcorn can save this one. That’s an acceptable substitute for Church in this postmodern world, right? Is Colin Firth in anything right now? While I’m editing I’ve already opened another tab to check on times.