I’ve always had a disdain for Sundays. Drawing from science fiction, I recall a poignant narrative where an immortal being feels the weight of existence most deeply on Sundays, when the realization of life’s futility comes crashing down. It’s that familiar sensation that creeps in on a Sunday afternoon after you’ve exhausted all your chores and find yourself mindlessly snacking, devoid of any enthusiasm. I can’t speak for others, but this “dark teatime of the soul” resonates profoundly here in the UK.
The Dreadful Sundays of My Youth
As a child, Sundays were an endless loop of boredom. The concept of a day of rest stems from Genesis, where God, after creating the universe in six days, takes a break on the seventh. (If God is all-powerful, this raises intriguing questions: Why six days? Why measure time when it didn’t exist? And what’s with the day off?) In Britain, this biblical principle meant that shops were closed.
Lacking consumer distractions, we turned to our televisions. Growing up, we had only four channels to choose from—yes, just four! This meant you either watched whatever was on or nothing at all. Unfortunately, Sunday programming was especially dismal. There were shows about antiques, which, as a child, could be as captivating as watching paint dry. Then there were interminable parts of a drama series about the English Civil War’s impact on a small town. Or the quiz show Mastermind, where pale contestants answered questions about obscure topics. The ultimate horror, however, was Last of the Summer Wine, a “comedy” about three elderly men wandering Yorkshire, culminating in them crashing absurd contraptions into trees, eliciting canned laughter. It felt like a sinister plot by the BBC to make children dread school the following day. Often, I’d retreat to bed, feeling utterly defeated.
Sundays as an Adult: The Illusion of Change
As an adult, I hoped Sundays would be different, but they weren’t. The rise of multi-channel television, Sunday shopping, and modern distractions haven’t diminished Sunday’s dismal essence; if anything, they’ve amplified it. You can feel the existential weight while trudging through a farmer’s market buying artisanal cheese or standing in line at a garden center clutching a plastic pond liner. Seriously, is there anything more soul-crushing than purchasing a container for a hole?
So, what makes Sundays so dreadful? My time spent in this “day of freedom” reveals something profound. Sundays are the one day we can do whatever we desire, free from societal expectations and responsibilities. It’s the time we truly confront ourselves, and therein lies the dilemma. Sunday acts like a mirror, compelling us to face the daunting question that we usually evade: “What do I really want to do?”
With the shackles of obligation removed, we’re left to ponder what we genuinely wish to achieve during our time on this planet. Not what we think we should want or what others expect us to desire, but what we truly yearn for. This leads to the even bigger question that haunts us throughout life: “Who am I?”
It’s no surprise we shy away from such inquiries. They shine so brightly that we often retreat from them. During the week, we can bury ourselves in responsibilities, avoiding introspection. We find comfort in easily defined roles—whether it’s the frustrated shopper or the exhausted parent.
Hence, my theory: We dislike Sundays because they offer a taste of freedom. They challenge us to live authentically and fully, to strive for personal growth. Sundays beckon us to embrace life, whether that means pursuing passions, taking risks, or simply existing more intentionally. They provide us with unstructured time and see what we make of it.
So, thank you, Sundays, but I’ll pass. I have to figure out how to dig a hole for this plastic pond liner and then retreat to my thoughts.
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Summary
Sundays can evoke feelings of existential dread as they force us to confront deep questions about our desires and identities. This day of supposed freedom often becomes a mirror, reflecting our innermost thoughts and aspirations, revealing the discomfort of unfulfilled potential.