OVER
A LIFETIME, Sundays evolve like hairdos.  When I was a kid, they were simple,
uncomplicated times to motor to grandma & grandpa’s house.  I could wear a striped t-shirt and shorts and
just be myself.  Everybody loved me.

As a teenager, the day became terribly complicated
by hormones and angst.  The family
dynamic was as regularly jagged as a torn page and, even on Sunday, I got the
blame for everything from forgetting the lemonade to making my sister cry.  My love for the day went up in the smoke I
was secretly puffing.

Sundays in college were soured by the need to
prepare for Monday quizzes and other similar character builders such as papers,
speaking assignments, and holding my own in group sessions.  Switching majors could only solve so many
issues for so long.  Decisions had to be
made and Sunday was the deadline day.

After remaining in school for as long as possible to
avoid “life,” one ultimately enters the real world with a coagulate mix of
trepidation, excitement, and absolute dread.  The Sunday prior to one’s first day at WORK stands as one of life’s prominent
nadirs.  Clothing must be exactly right
and the hair, the hair has to be better looking than reasonably possible, even
on a dry, windless day.

A lengthy progression of decades then ensues during
which Sundays become evaluative times, days to dip into rare moments of deliberation,
self-study, and taking stock of where you are as opposed to where you hoped to
be.  In other words, Sundays really suck.

Eventually, if you live that long, you get to
experience Sundays in retirement.  By
this point, you have become inured to your fate and maybe even, if you’re
lucky, able to look in the mirror with a certain degree of pride that you have
made it this far.  On the minus side, you
do have to get used to what you have come to look like but, on the other hand,
Sundays aren’t much different than the other six days.  Plus, you can now go back to just wearing a
striped t-shirt and shorts and everybody loves you.