People’s relationship to Sunday is a complicated one. You hate it. You love it. You dread Monday. You dread your life. You feel like you didn’t live up to its potential.
I like not having to teach on Mondays so that Sunday begins to feel like any other day and I do not have to put much thought into what it all means.
But I liked even more Sundays in France where the village began the day with a market, tended to its afternoon hours with a nice big meal and than basically fell into dozing on and off until suppertime. I can handle that.
Today I put myself into the French mode, absent the market. (Find me a farmers market on Sunday in the States and I will personally make an appearance and shop there. Maybe not. But I would think about it.)
I fixed a biggish lunch for a smallish bunch of people. I opened a bottle of rose wine.
I cleaned up, had a strong cup of coffee to fight the post-lunch drooping eyelid problem and counted the minutes til supper.
One might argue that this is not a full day. One would be wrong.