You’d think I would have grown out of Sunday Night Dread. Like all the other things: Buying shoes too small just because they look nice, drinking so much coffee I vibrate, overplucking my eyebrows, buying lipgloss after lipgloss, anal sex.
For some it strikes late on Saturday night. You know, when the evening is done and the make-up is off and you are tucking yourself in and the niggling panic descends. The panic that tells you the weekend is more than halfway through. Often swiftly followed by the panic that tells you your life may be more than halfway through.
My personal dread cloud looms like a question mark over Sunday afternoon. And I think, “Why do I feel mad?” and simultaneously, “Why is everyone acting so strangely?” And then I remember that it is the precursor to Sunday Night Dread. And the afternoon gets hard to enjoy and I feel like the world’s oldest school girl who has delayed her maths homework and now hates herself and everyone else.
By 7pm the Sunday feeling is slicing through me like a hot knife through butter. I am blind with dread, clumsy, leaden, sad. Uncomforted by the fact that every working person/school child in the entire world is feeling like this. Even though I love my job. Even if my life looks mostly how it is supposed to look and I wouldn’t change much, there is still this terrible feeling. This feeling of something being over. This feeling that things are about to be asked of me and I don’t know if I will be able to rise to the challenge.
Nothing helps. Not wine (on a Sunday night? Careful now), not chocolate (don’t you think you’ve had enough?), not Homeland (threat everywhere). It’s not me, it’s Sunday. I think.