Sundays have long been a source of disdain for me. In a nod to science fiction, one might recall Douglas Adams’ poignant description of an immortal being who feels the weight of their endless existence most acutely on Sundays. It’s during these moments that the absurdity of life comes crashing down, leading to what Adams wittily dubbed “the long, dark teatime of the soul.” This phrase resonates universally; we’ve all experienced that Sunday afternoon malaise, when chores are complete and you find yourself snacking aimlessly—your zest for life evaporated long ago. Here in Britain, this “teatime” feels especially bleak.
Sundays in My Youth
Growing up in Britain, Sundays were synonymous with tediousness. The notion of a day of rest, as outlined in Genesis, where God took a break after creating the universe, always struck me as ironic. If he’s all-powerful, why take six days? And why measure time in days when time was supposedly non-existent? Shopping was off-limits, as stores remained closed due to biblical tradition.
With no retail therapy available, we turned to our televisions, which offered only four channels. Yes, just four! The Sunday offerings were painfully dull—an antiques show that felt akin to watching paint dry, a never-ending drama about the English Civil War, and the often-mundane quiz show Mastermind, where the participants looked as lively as corpses discussing cutlery history. Then there was Last of the Summer Wine, a so-called comedy featuring three elderly men wandering Yorkshire, occasionally getting into absurd situations. The laughter was always canned, and it seemed like the BBC was plotting to make children yearn for school the next day. I often retreated to my room, defeated by the monotony.
The Disillusionment of Adult Sundays
I once believed adulthood would change my Sundays for the better, but I was mistaken. The rise of multi-channel TV and Sunday shopping hasn’t diminished the day’s existential weight. Instead, it has intensified it, manifesting in the bleakness of buying artisanal cheese at a farmer’s market or waiting in line at a garden center, clutching a plastic pond liner. Honestly, what could be more depressing than purchasing a hole? Sunday casts a shadow over everything.
So, why does Sunday feel so heavy? After spending a significant portion of my life in this suffocating routine, I’ve come to a startling realization: Sunday represents freedom. It’s the only day we are free of responsibilities and obligations, and it’s precisely this freedom that leads us to confront uncomfortable truths about ourselves. Sunday acts as a mirror, compelling us to grapple with the daunting question: “What do I truly want to do?”
Faced with a day devoid of structure, we must confront deeper inquiries: What aspirations do we harbor? What do we truly desire from our time on this Earth? Not the superficial “What should I want?” or “What’s expected of me?” but the genuine “What do I want?” This existential dilemma connects to the even larger question that follows us throughout life: “Who am I?”
It’s no wonder we shy away from these questions—such clarity can be overwhelming. The routine of weekdays provides a comforting shield against self-examination, as we dive into familiar roles: the frustrated shopper, the weekend gardener, or the bored family on a drive.
In essence, we dread Sundays because they offer a glimpse of freedom. They challenge us to embrace life, creativity, and self-discovery. They nudge us toward meaningful experiences and push us to live authentically. Sunday hands us empty hours and watches to see how we fill them.
Thanks, but no thanks, Sunday. I’ve got a hole to dig for this plastic pond lining—and maybe a tear or two to shed.
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