Sunday Evenings

Sunday evenings are a relentless blue in my mind. They never bring me any joy and it takes a lot of effort on my part to get through them. I try everything I can think of to distract myself. I sip a glass of wine, I listen to music, I laugh with my kids, I go for a walk with my husband. Nothing helps. I know that the feeling will not abate till it is Monday morning.

The funny thing is that Sunday mornings are my favourite time of the week. Sunday afternoons have a delicious sated yet sensual feel to them so that I always look forward to relaxing and feeling myself sinking into the impossibly warm delight of doing nothing at all. Then comes the evening with its ominous undertones of grey that then turn to a deep dark blue. No activity can make me get through the feeling of loss that pervades me on Sunday evenings. What is it that I mourn? Why is sadness so imbued in the air of Sunday evenings? Why can’t I shrug it off like I can on other days? Its hard to answer these questions. Sometimes writing helps. But today even my words seem stilted and do not flow with easy assurance. Still I write.

The clock ticks ever so slowly as I watch it. I don’t feel sleepy though it is almost 11. I sit in front of my laptop wondering how it is that Sundays can be such a curious mix of pleasure, relaxation and blueness. I wonder why I cannot escape into my words for a few hours so that the night doesn’t feel so heavy around me. And then I think I will give it up and go to bed. Perhaps if I lie still and close my eyes very tight, the night will go by easily and the morning will get here really fast. But no. When I do lie down after my nightly shower, all I hear is the amplified sounds of the fan whirring, the whining of the one mosquito that has escaped the window mesh, assorted cat noises and the snoring of my sleeping husband. I can feel every fibre of my pillow case. I can feel the weight of the quilt on my body. I pull my arms out in an effort to cool them and then the goosebumps start forming because it’s a rainy chilly night. I find no comfort in any pose – even in my favourite shrimp-like curl that I have perfected over the years. So in anticipation of a restless night, I tarry behind downstairs. I don’t want to try to sleep. I should just write.

I envy anyone who can get through days as if they didn’t matter – as if each day did not have its own character that you had to adjust to and then let go of. I envy anyone who can hit the pillow and go to sleep, snoring and blissfully unaware of the person who tosses and turns in annoyance just a few inches away. For me sleep is never to be taken for granted. There were many years when it was elusive. Now it is less so but it still takes work. I cannot assume I will sleep every night. I can only try.

Sundays need to stop in the afternoons. They shouldn’t be allowed to meander into depressing evenings and sleepless nights. Much like relationships that are so full of promise and pleasure initially and then taper into ordinary soul-numbing routine that leaches the life out of them ever so slowly. Maybe that is why I dislike Sunday evenings. They remind me too much of real mundane life.