Sunday nights in high school were the worst. Everything neglected over the course of the weekend came crashing down at once. What a freaking way to start the week.
College, it was a bit better. Not because I learned to forgo my procrastinatory ways. But because it didn't matter if you didn't do the sh*t due Monday. There wasn't really sh*t 'due' ever. You didn't do the reading? Big whoop. Just make stuff up. Every class was a lesson in B.S. 101.
After I moved to New York, I started to enjoy Sundays for the first time in my life. Hangovers (hopefully slightly less toxic than yesterday's) were nearly cured by a big, greasy brunch with friends. I could take an aimless walk. I could do an errand if I felt like it. Heck, I could do anything if I felt like it. Catch a double-header at the movie theater. Go to Barnes&Noble and thumb through each and every one of the magazines I wish I could afford, but can't pony up the dough for a subscription.
Things change, though, when you hate your job. For a while, I was dissatisfied, but stuck it out because it's safe and it's routine, and -- to be quite honest -- it's hard to apply for jobs when you're not quite sure what job you'd want next anyway. But now, I'm just miserable. I get paid too little to work too many hours and I feel like I'm slowly making my way up a totem pole I don't care to be on in the first place. So I've got to figure things out and find a way to get myself out of here.
Do you know that when you do a Google search for "sundays" and "I hate my job," you get 106,000 hits?
Yes, these are the sorts of things I do on Sunday nights -- when the good parts of the Times are all finished and Grey's Anatomy is over -- while contemplating just what to do to change my life.
This time, luck's not going to be the one to do it. It's going to have to be me that figure's this one out.