Sundays Suck

I’ve never been a big fan of Sundays. Oh sure Sunday morning is great. I have an overnight caregiver on Saturday night, so Sunday morning I sleep in. Wake up when I want to instead of when a bleeping alarm jolts me out of the sweaty dream and the naked man beside me turns out to have been whisp of wishful dreaming.

Then Sunday evening drops itself on my heart and I am lonely. In lifetimes past, Sunday sunsets were spent surfing at Black’s Beach or catching some late night tunes at the Covered Wagon Saloon and not fucking Michel Dean. Now it’s dinner at six. Every night it’s dinner at six. My eighty one year old disabled mother is an early bird. So we eat at six which in my lexicon is the middle of the afternoon while I’m still trying to plant purple needle grass between the pebble pavers on my strip or dreaming of the evening glass off.

She goes to bed at eight and then I’m all alone. Lonely. No friends. No music. No pelicans gliding past my head. Alone to contemplate yet another week of being alone. For 450 Sundays, I haven't had a life. I know other people socialize, attend poetry readings or workshops. There’s even a drum circle down the street from my house; I never go.

Sunday evenings I think about things like having a lover or meeting some grrrls at a bar for drinks or even going for a long bike ride in the evening so I can collapse into bed and fall asleep in a heart beat instead of thinking how this is yet another Sunday when I’m alone. Sunday evenings I watch trashy television, try to forget that I’m alone. That the world outside my front door is off limits to me. That the only people I know are murdered on the million and one detective shows. Sunday evenings are when I get scared I’ll always be alone. At least the murder victims get to spend time with the detectives.

Sundays suck.