October 30, 2000
Sundayitis

 


 
We slept on opposite sides of the bed last night. (Or as "opposite" as is possible, anyway, when two largish adults are sharing one smallish lumpy Posturepedic.) He slept on the West Coast of the bed, I slept on the East Coast ... with parts of me occasionally spilling over into the Atlantic, as the night progressed.

Normally we are piled together somewhere in the Midwest.

Normally we fall asleep with a minimum of two body parts touching: feet and fingertips, for instance, or feet and butts, or butts and feet. Last night I huddled on my side of the bed and primly kept all of my body parts to myself.

There was no goodnight kiss. There was no "Sleep well," or "I'm here if you need me," or "I love you." Normally we are very careful to say these things to each other before we sleep. Last night we didn't.

We didn't fight, exactly. We still don't fight, even after two years.

We were laying next to each other in bed -- he with his guitar, me with the Sunday paper -- and I asked him a question about an article I was reading. ("What do you think about this, honey?")  It wasn't anything earth-shatteringly-important: mostly I was just making companionable bedtime conversation. 

"Did you say something?" he asked blankly. 

So I patiently repeated the question. Seconds ticked by without a response. I looked at him expectantly -- Well? -- and he gave me another startled, dopey look that said I know that those are probably words coming out of your mouth, but my circuits are currently unable to process anything you're saying.

"I'm sorry," he said, gesturing vaguely at the TV. "This is a critical part of the show."

A 'critical part of the show'?

Since when is ANY part of "Ed" considered 'critical' by either one of us?!? We're only watching this stoopid show because The Simpsons are being pre-empted again.

A 'critical part of the show' my adorable unappreciated ass.

I slid out of bed and stomped out to the dining room, where I sat in front of the computer playing with Paint Shop Pro and pouting for twenty minutes. I'm not sure why I was so upset. I knew he wasn't ignoring me deliberately. I knew that I have his undivided attention 99.9% of the time. I knew we were both tired from a long day of family stuff (him) and housecleaning (me).

I knew I was mostly suffering from a raging case of Sundayitis ... that vague, sad, end-of-the-world feeling I get every weekend. I knew it would pass shortly.

But I was still pissed.

When I finally went back into the bedroom, he had turned off the reading lamp and the TV and was curled up in a big lumpy knot underneath the blankets. I could see his bald spot, glistening in the darkness. Ordinarily I would crawl over and sort of lay on top of him for a minute, planting a big noisy kiss on the shiny part of his head -- I always tell him, "The bald spot is where your brain is too hot" -- but at that particular moment I didn't feel like rewarding inattention with attention.

So I curled up on the East Coast and steadfastly ignored my neighbor on the West Coast until we both fell asleep.




It has long been my belief that Sunday is a terrible thing to do to a perfectly good weekend.

Saturday is fine. Saturday is tons of fun. You wake up on Saturday morning, usually after having spent Friday night doing something pleasurable or relaxing or not at all work-related, and you still have not one but TWO full *play days* ahead of you. (Or you have two *catching-up-on-personal-stuff* days. Or one *play day* and one *catching-up-on-personal-stuff* day. Or half a *catching-up-on-personal-stuff* day, three-fourths of a *play day* and one-quarter of a *sitting-around-cleaning-your-ears-with-a-paper-clip* day. How you configure your two days is up to you.)

Saturday night is good, too. On Saturday night you can stay up and watch "Titanic" and neck and eat caramel ice cream until midnight, if you want to, and not even worry about bags under your eyes the next day. Who's gonna see them, anyway?

But then along comes Sunday.

The problem with Sunday -- for me, anyway -- is that all of the problems and worries and anxieties from the week before tend to come crashing in on me on Sunday. Sunday is my day to stew, and to kick myself, and to play Shoulda/Woulda/Coulda. ("I shoulda finished filing those Rail Reports/I coulda taken another hour for lunch last week with Oz & OldeRocker/I woulda been a lot nicer to that cranky dick on the phone if I'd known he was the MAYOR.")

Even worse, all of the problems and worries and anxieties of the week ahead tend to have their *preview* on Sunday. I spent most of yesterday systematically destroying my nine remaining fingernails, thinking about Franz coming back to the office on Tuesday.

That's what Sundays are like for me.

If I'm going to experience a wave of homesickness for TicTac ... Sunday is the day it will hit. If I'm going to wallow in remorse over something I said in anger to one of my children back in 1988 ... Sunday is the day I will wallow. If I'm going to weep over photo albums, or get huffy with an online pal because she corrects my grammar, or morosely binge on Cadbury bars (because I'm starting to look "puffy" again, so what does it matter?)  ... Sunday is the day.

And if I'm going to pick an imaginary fight with David ... it'll happen on a Sunday.

Guaranteed.


 
Today is our two-year "anniversary."

It was two years ago tonight that I got off that airplane at Oakland International for my big platonic sightseeing weekend with my pal Ю僱êrvØ¡ ... and ended up permanently sharing a toothbrush holder with the guy. (All of this previously and  -- some might say  --  tediously documented, elsewhere on this website.)

I woke up this morning and my first thought was You're not allowed to be angry with each other on an anniversary.

Especially when only one of us was *angry* to begin with.

Frankly, not-being-angry with each other is all we've got going for this particular anniversary. This will not be a big hearts-and-flowers occasion. We're too broke to observe the day in any formal way. (I figure if I was going to get roses, they would have been delivered by now: he's probably sitting at his desk right now, thinking the exact same thing.)  We were both too swamped at work to go out to lunch. We haven't even talked on the phone. David has family obligations tonight, so a romantic dinner-for-two is out: it's more likely to be potstickers and orange creme soda at The Ho Ho Express than lobster and sparkling apple cider at Scott's.

We're both too preoccupied and stressed by work ... by money worries ... by family concerns ... by day-to-day LIFE, basically, to completely set everything aside and celebrate.

That's the bad news.

The good news is that it's not Sunday.

The other good news is that there is one way we can *celebrate* our anniversary this evening, and it won't cost us a cent. All we have to do is decide which coast we're going to sleep on tonight. 

I'm voting for the Gulf Coast tonight, myself.



two years ago: california-bound
one year ago: it's a romance

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