I used to dread Sunday night. Everything from 4pm onwards felt like winding down, and there’s nothing I like less than winding down. The feeling of inevitable endings. I used to fear that moment at about 7pm on Sundays when the nighttime crept around and I knew the weekend was over. That the next thing was sleep and morning and Monday and school runs and traffic and being late. I would sit on the couch and will Sunday to run a little longer, with my eyes scrunched up and all. It never worked; the clock just ticked louder and louder until the sun rose and rudely shook me into the week ahead.
These days, I like Sunday night. When the kids are asleep, I can make myself a cup of tea and light a candle and look forward to the promise that Monday holds. And I mean that in completely the Oprah way. I like knowing that I haven’t screwed the day up yet. I like knowing that I can put socks on and the night will stretch out in front of me and I don’t have to do anything.
So right now, even though I’m sad, I’m wrapped up inside my Sunday night, and that’s the best place I could be.