(Pauses, sets up soapbox)
Part of the problem with our culture is that everyone wants to say something controversial and get famous. So, I am going enter the fray and make the bold statement that I absolutely hate Mondays. Cue the lasagna, I just can't stand the abrupt shift in tone that starts to appear on Sunday night and hangs around through the next afternoon. Mondays suck.
(gets off soapbox)
My problem is not getting any better. In fact it is getting noticeably worse. Sundays were the day that Melissa and I promised to spend exclusively with each other. It was our sacred day to be home and do nothing. She arranged her weekly schedules so that Sunday afternoons would be free. I would go to the early services on Sunday mornings, she would sleep in. I would stop by Dunkin Donuts and get her a Boston cream and a cinnamon raisin bagel. She would usually be up, feeding the cats, when I would get home. From lunch through the end of Last Week Tonight we belonged exclusively to each other and the couch.
Sundays meant trips to the dog park. If we were lucky, it would just be us at the park and the girls could run free. If we were really lucky Betty would find a low flying bird to chase, giving us her best imitation of nature film. She never caught a bird, but it sure was fun to watch.
Sundays meant getting some good Mexican food. Sometimes it would be our old standard of Macayos. Two green corn tamales and cheese enchilada for Melly, a chicken chimichanga for me. An order of sopapillas for both of us. Sometimes it was Otro. A breakfast burrito with no chorizo for her, three chicken tacos for me. Fresh made guac for both of us. Sometimes it was Gadzooks. Same thing for both of us, one jalepeno cornbread and one spinach and mushroom enchilada each, on 50/50 corn/flour tortillas, christmas style, with pico, sour cream, pepper jack and cheddar.
Sundays meant catching up on TV. Sundays over the years included Breaking Bad, Mad Men, The Sopranos, The Wire, True Detective, Veep, Last Week Tonight. We'd close it out with a couple of episodes of King of the Hill, then maybe read for a little while in bed.
Sundays meant baseball. Sundays meant a drive to the mountains or the desert. Sundays meant time to think, uninterrupted. Sundays meant being with the one that meant the most in the world. Mondays meant a return to "life" and paying the bills.
I loved our Sundays together. I think that they be the thing that I miss the most. Now Sundays feel lost, lacking structure or direction. I've tried to recreate the little things, but it is still lonesome. I've done my best to find replacements where I can. I catch up with her family and mine. I go to lunch or dinner with friends. I love them all, but it is not the same. She is not there to laugh with me, to complain to about having to wake up for a 8:00a Monday conference call.
The feeling of my lost Sundays build until Monday morning, where all that waits for me is an inbox full of unanswered questions and a serious lack of motivation. The half life of my Mondays is short, and I feel better by mid afternoon, but damn those mornings are tough.