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There’s something about Sunday night
that really makes you want to kill yourself
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Sunday, January 09, 2005

Sundays in the South

I have my weekends planned out pretty well. One day is for relaxing, the other for shopping. (It always surprises me how many groceries we go through a week.) The shopping day often also requires a trip to Target, which is never an appealing way to pass an hour or so. So this weekend, I defied my usual practice and spent Saturday relaxing, cleaning, and napping with the kitties. It was perfect. But that didn’t mean Sunday dawned and I jumped out of bed ready to shop.

But it helped that it is gorgeous today. Sixty or 65 degrees, which I believe is unusual for this time of year here. The streets were quieter than usual, and I decided to go to the music store first as a treat. I was looking forward to walking in wearing my J. Lo velour track suit, and completely confounding the clerk when I asked for a “Teach Yourself the Concertina” book and a go at the drum sets. Of course, being Sunday, it was closed. I was disappointed, but since the day was so beautiful, and it was good to get out of the house, I instead thought about what I love about Sundays here.

Most things are closed. I used to love spending Sunday mornings having breakfast at a diner, or at Café Selmarie, so it was hard to adjust to nothing being open here. Now I love how quiet it is. Everything shuts down, so I’m forced to relax. I appreciate the slower pace of life. In Chicago, Sunday was a mad dash to do something, to maximize my weekend, my time off before I went back to a job that I (irrationally) hated. If I didn’t do something cool, I’d end up in the evening with a heavy feeling in my stomach, a serious depression facing the rest of the night. Angela Chase did say it best: “There’s something about Sunday night that really makes you want to kill yourself.”

(Was it really the frenetic pace of Chicago that made me feel like I never absorbed enough culture or city life? Or was it that I hated my job, felt stagnant in life, had a bunch of dreams that hinged on “next year” and “when x happens, I can do y”?)

At any rate, being here forces me to make the most of the little that’s here, and since I don’t like most of what’s here (though there is a real, authentic coffeehouse I keep meaning to check out), I feel more comfortable not doing anything. Relaxing, and enjoying my time off work.

I love this slow, deliberate pace of life. A quiet, reflective Sunday afternoon is my church. Wind in the trees the hymns, and a still pool of water my prayer.

Could I really spend my life in a small town that afforded this to me? Maybe I could, if it weren’t this small town.


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