Monday is no prize, but Sunday gets my vote for the most depressing day of the week. It’s Sunday when I realize I’ve pretty much wasted more than half of my weekend. It’s Sunday when it becomes clear that I’ve so far failed to make any noticeable dent in the list of things I wanted and/or needed to do before work gobbles up most of my time again. It’s Sunday when the delicious feeling of possibility I had earlier in the weekend starts to disappear.
It’s Sunday now. To my left, the list lurks. This is a new list, written out this morning because I couldn’t find the list I had been working off of. “Library” it says. I don’t really need to go; I was able to renew the books I’ve got online so the library police won’t be coming to pound on my door, but I’m done with a lot of them and I expect other patrons might like to be able to check them out and I’d like to have another book on CD on hand in case I don’t like the only one I’ve got left on hand that I haven’t heard. “Birdseed/Karen bars/disposable pizza pan” it says, because we haven’t gone grocery shopping in a while. “Laundry” it says, because it pretty much always does. “Package shoes” it says, because the newest new running shoes I tried were no improvement and so need to go back. “Unpack” it says, because my suitcase from D.C. is sitting open on the guest bed, far from empty.
The list says other things, too. Left unsaid are things like “you don’t really have time to go to a movie”. Guess I need to stop writing and start doing other stuff. Not that I have any hope of crossing everything off the list, but I’ll feel better tonight if it’s not still staring at me untouched.
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