i don’t like sundays

I just don’t. Never have. Sundays represent the end of fun, the beginning of not-fun. It matters not what the following day promises. I could be staring at a long line of vacation days but Sunday will still send my mood into a tailspin. Sunday mornings are tolerable. Sunday afternoons I can easily ignore, or sleep away on the couch. But Sunday nights — those are the worst.

Today was no different. I spent most of yesterday unable to look away from the TV, clutching my phone, and shaking my head because I just couldn’t wrap my brain around what I was hearing. It would be tragic no matter where it happened, but yesterday it happened in my home state, in my home town. Where my family lives. Where I still have friends. I saw the headline and called my mom to ask if she’d heard, a shooting at a grocery store there in Tucson. I had no details — what part of town, what store — the headline took me to a webpage that spun forever, traffic having sent the site down. She told me she would call my father and then called me back. He had gone to the store.

Tucson is not a small town. The shooting was at nearly the opposite side of town, nearly a 45 minute drive, from where my parents live. I don’t know anyone involved. The aide that was killed went to graduate school with an old friend of mine. That’s as close a connection as I’ll get. Watching the footage looping on CNN, it didn’t matter how far away it was, or whether I recognized any names or faces. It was in Tucson. Home.

I fell asleep yesterday afternoon on the couch, woken by Fred telling me we had an hour before we had to leave for dinner. I was zombied out. We dressed, left, and managed to put together a better than decent night.

This morning, Fred got up with Emma, and let me sleep. I stumbled out around 9 to a happy family and mug full of coffee. Emma busied herself, and Fred read the paper, and I climbed into a chair with my book and read. And read. And Fred brought me more coffee and I kept reading. And read some more. Later he brought me lunch. I ate it while I read. When I pulled myself up to get ready to take Emma to visit a friend, I complained about not being able to stay in my pajamas and read my book. And instead of making a crack or rolling his eyes, Fred said, “I know. You can do it when you get home.” Something about that — the way he said it — made this Sunday just a bit more bearable.

But I still don’t like them.

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