There’s something about Sundays being the devil reincarnated. Sunday’s are meant for chilling, a slow Sunday, a bath and a day that you can dedicate to self care but in reality; Sundays aren’t slow.
Sundays snatch like an impatient child. They lull you into a false sense of security, only to whip away the safety net at the last moment, leaving you hurtling into Monday.
Sundays have a bad rap and Monday’s even more so. Why do we wish away these days in favour of Fridays and Saturdays? Living for the weekend is more apt but we don’t really do this. It should be called living for Saturdays because we certainly don’t live for Sundays.
I’ve been a victim of the Sunday Syndrome for as long as I’ve been working which is a short while now. Even though I don’t mind my job, I still hate Sundays.
Weekends are the only time where I truly get to relax. I can lounge around in my pyjamas, take walks along the seafront and wander around town perusing the shops. I can pick up an M&S meal for two and a bottle of wine ready for the ultimate night in or paint my face with a layer of foundation and head out for the night with friends.
Sundays can be made into a non – Sunday; sure but when the evening comes it’s still a Sunday. It’s a never ending cycle that doesn’t get better with time. That sense of routine sometimes feels like it’s stifling me.
Take a break you might say. Travel the world whilst you still can. Sometimes it’s tempting but my priorities don’t lie a plane ride away. Not at the moment anyway.
Sometimes I think about what it would be like if there weren’t days of the week. If time wasn’t divided into sections that categorised when you must start work and when you must finish. For if time didn’t exist, maybe Sundays wouldn’t seem so bad at all.
Sunday for me isn’t a self care day. Recently, it’s been a day where I struggle to contain my emotions. Stuck between wanting to make the most of the weekend and preparing for the week ahead; I tend to do neither.
It’s embarrassing really. The long winter months sure take their toll when I glance at the clock and realise I’ve spent a good twelve hours in bed and have half the day left.
The rest of the day seems hard to fill. Floating about doing nothing much seems to be the best way to fill the dreaded Sunday at the moment or browsing travel sites.
Sundays are for wanderlust, getting stuck in a black hole of booking.com and airbnb then getting frustrated because you can’t find anything suitable. Sunday is a mood in itself for me.
If someone asked me how I was feeling, I could easily say ‘I’m feeling a bit Sunday’. Ridiculous or could that be a thing?
I’m one of those people that wakes up on a Sunday and just expects it to not be as good as the day before. I know I shouldn’t because maybe if I woke up with a positive, mental attitude, then everything would be alright.
If I start the day right by waking up early, having a good breakfast and getting some fresh air then I’m on track to have a half decent day until the evening comes.
Most Sundays, this doesn’t happen. Maybe it’s just because it’s the winter and my bed seems more enticing but I know that I still get the Sunday Syndrome in the summer.
The Sunday Syndrome isn’t as bad in the summer. Lighter evenings mean that you can sit in the garden until 10pm and it still feels like 3 in the afternoon (or thereabouts).
Summer brings with it the sun and endorphins meaning I don’t have a care in the world. I’m pretty sure I smile a lot less in the winter. I’ve read all the blog posts about self care and how to be happy but I never end up implementing the tips.
I could be happier on a Sunday if I tried but when you wake up and feel that slow feeling of dread setting in, you don’t have a hope in hell of shaking yourself out of it.
I’d rather mope around all day and watch Netflix. The worst thing is when Sundays are so unproductive that you wish the day never existed. We’re all allowed those so called ‘write off’ days but they make me feel so bad about myself.
It seems pretty fitting that I wrote this post at 11:30pm Sunday night, trying to prolong the last half an hour of the weekend. Here’s to next Sunday and a feeling of contentment because why shouldn’t Sundays be about reflection upon a good week? I suppose they are for some but here’s to a Sunday well spent without looking at the clock.