This past Sunday Lola's Hang-Over Scale was set to an unusual zero jigawatts due to the fact my recovery from the aforementioned pandemic severely inhibited my going-out quotient for the week. I generally wake up feeling happy that it is a Sunday but this time I had the added bonus of not wanting to vomit out the alcohol from the night before so it was even more glorious! Unfortunately this alcohol-free haze lead me to a sad realization.
Sundays have the unique ability to make you hate and love life at the same time.
Sleeping in and not having to work on a Sunday is possibly one of the best and most enriching experiences that life has to offer. (If you are one of those irritating people who are actually productive on a Sunday, then eff you because you make the rest of us look like slobs.) Knowing that you aren't obligated to do anything besides watch TV, go to the movies, or play video games is like a heavenly slice of heaven-cake, floating on top of heaventastic (Take that, spellcheck!) fluffy clouds.
And speaking of cake, another added and delectable bonus about Sundays is that it is usually considered an all out cheat day. Awhile ago, my siblings and I coined the phrase: Fat-Sunday. This refers to the activity of watching football all day while completely and utterly gorging yourself on fried food, wings, brownies, pizza, mozzarella sticks, gummi bears, Chinese food, and the occasional drum-stick ice-cream cone. Yeah, it's absolutely disgusting. And yet simultaneously, oddly fulfilling.
This Fat-Sunday euphoria lasts until about five o'clock. That's when you start watching the clock, sweating nervously as the time continues to tick away and you get closer and closer to Monday. It goes lightening fast too, as if the rest of the day had been on an entirely different space/time continuum. Up until now, Fat-Sunday has been pure stress-free bliss. But as you rush headlong into night- if you're anything like me- you actually start to get angry and resentful. Because deep down you know that you have to get up early Monday morning; eat grilled flavorless, healthy effing food; and go to that mindless soul-sucking, hell-hole you refer to as a job.
Being a grown-up sucks.