I’ve never been able to enjoy Sundays.
You could put a troop of juggling monkeys, a water slide and a Ferris wheel in my backyard. You could set me up with a team of dancing girls, a go-cart track and a half-mile strip of Venice Beach. No go. If it’s Sunday, I’m just not down with it.
I know what you’re thinking. “But, Marky. Sunday is just another day off, different from Saturday only in the spelling.”
Don’t call me Marky. And also, you’re wrong. You couldn’t be any wronger, in fact. Sunday is a day which, no matter how bright or how sunny, always sits under the fat, ugly cloud that is Monday.
Back in the day, Sunday meant coming home early, leaving behind all the glory of the baseball field or the dead thing at the side of the road in preparation of another school day. Make sure your homework is done, blah blah blah. Get to bed early so you don’t fall asleep in the gym shower again, yada yada yada.
Where Saturday meant complete liberation, Sunday was nothing but a dull ache of pressure, not unlike a toothache that settles into your fun nerve instead of your jaw. Sunday is just one long slide delivering you to the craptastic world of a new week.
So, you finish school and grow up. You check to see if you’re from an enormously wealthy family and find out you are not. Bummer. So, you get a job, go to work and what do you know? When Sunday rolls around, there it is again. A reminder of looming responsibility to go with the hangover. Better wrap things up, chum. Tomorrow is Monday.
In my view, the world is made up of two distinct groups. Those clearly deranged people who love Sundays. And the Sunday-haters like myself, people who continually lobby their congressperson to have the wretched day shaved off the calendar altogether.
The congresspersons never respond to our cries, which only demonstrates how volatile the issue can be.
If you happen to be in the latter group, you will never be able to shake off the fetid stink of Sundays. That feeling is permanent, like a scar or herpes. You could invent a device that everybody wants — the perfect nostril-hair trimmer, say — become super rich and never have to work again. You can spend all your weekends in Bimini, if there is such a place, and never have to worry about the responsibilities of the workweek again.
Won’t matter. That Sunday feeling is in your bones. You can live your life like one long Mardi Gras but every time that day comes around, the beer tastes sour, there’s a hair in your food and you can’t find a woman anywhere who’s worth your beads.
It’s a once-a-week sickness, unmitigated by things like vacations or blackouts. There’s probably a scientific name for this weekly malady. Since I’m not presently connected to the Internet, let’s assume I’m right.
But how big is the division between the Sunday-haters and the other weirdos? According to a recent poll, the population is split evenly on the matter. See poll results below.
“I HATE Sundays. Worst day of the week. Brings me back to my childhood when school loomed. It’s stuck with me all these years.”
“I happen to like Sundays. Any day I’m not taking the long dirt nap is a good day.”
“I want Chinese food.”
So, you see? We’re evenly split, with the third response demonstrating that no matter how it breaks down, there is still plenty of room for crazy people.
Again, I know what you’re thinking. “But, Mike. If you succeed in getting Sunday blown off the calendar, won’t that just mean a one-day weekend?”
The name is Marky. But it’s a fair point. There’s some complex math involved so I put my best mind (some lady I met through Facebook) on it to help clarify.
“If you take Sundays away, then Saturday becomes the day before Monday instead of the wonderful day after Friday,” she states in her report. “We have to keep Sundays to provide that bridge between the most awesome day and . . . Well, Monday.”
Which doesn’t support my argument at all, so I’m unfriending the charlatan at once.
An argument could be made, I suppose, that Sundays are not meant to be fun or relaxing or generally non-sucky at all. It’s the Lord’s day, after all, a time meant for worship. Which is a point I’d be happy to debate rigorously if I didn’t have to rush out right away to handle an issue with go-carting monkeys on Venice Beach.
My backyard is just awesome six days of the week.
Mark LaFlamme is a Sun Journal staff writer. You can debate the merits of juggling monkeys at email@example.com.