Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Saturdays don't hurt as much. There's always a birthday party or kid event. There's always a get together and markets to shop and clothes to wash. Usually I'm so being decompressing from the work week to notice that the other side of the bed, the sofa, the lunch/dinner table is empty. I'm too busy making grilled cheeses and curling hair to notice how easy it is spread diagonal across the bed.
But then Sunday happens.
And there aren't enough good books, bad TV, or ugly tweets to satiate me. And I don't care about other peoples problems so save your calls, I won't answer. And someone else has to make those grilled cheeses. I just want to lay...anywhere. Save the Sunday invites because I won't be in attendance. I don't care to hear you ask one more time where my husband is. You already know. We don't need to joke about his work ethic or how he's missing yet another family event. And I'm tired of making him a plate.
I think it would make more sense if he was across the oceans geared up and fighting some endless war or in a 53 footer delivering goods across the country but he's not. He's just at work and work feels light years away.
I joke about being a Weekend Widow and a Saturday/Sunday Single Mom but the real truth is that it stopped being funny a long time ago.
I give my honey I'll do list to the hubby to entice...plead...and beg him to stay. I'll give you a massage and make all your favorite foods and you won't have to lift a pinky finger...
He tells me he wishes he could stay and wishes the house would pay for itself and then he slides on his trousers, buttons his shirt and ties his tie and I watch every move wondering when our schedule will be in sync. I remind myself that I got married on a Tuesday and thank God Dood was born on his day off and he reminds me that it's not that bad. I'll be home before you know it. And then I make idle threats about how messed up the house will be because I'm not moving from this bed until he returns and he replies "let it." I threaten to not cook Sunday dinner and he just smiles and says, "well then we'll go out to eat."
It's useless and pointless. He leaves every time always promising to come back. Hours glide by when I realize that I'm making good on my promises to not move until he's home again. I tell myself I'll get up in an hour or another hour. I tell myself that I'm just relaxing and enjoying a lazy Sunday. I tell Dood to grab a banana if he gets hungry. I give the ok for Fidge to go to a friend's house.
In a word it sucks.
After googling Sunday Depression for a picture for this post I realize with over 40 million hits there's something to this. Apparently it's a real thing. It's possible to be perfectly fine six days of the week and feel like complete crap on one of them. Doctors are even studying whether this phenomenon warrants some kind of medication.
But I don't care about any of that right now. I just want consistent weekends with my family intact. I don't want to hear Dood & Fidge give their updates on what we did. I want him to already know. I don't want to have to share pictures on trips and parties. He should be there.
I'm curious to know what you all think. Do you believe it's possible to be forever bummed the same day every week? Have you heard of this condition before? Am I just being pathetic and overly dramatic?