Johnny Cash knew it. Kris Kristofferson knew it. Sunday mornings can be very, very rough.
I’ve spent more than a few Sunday mornings wishing it were still Saturday night or, better yet, that I could go back to sleep until Monday. On those days, Monday morning would have been a blessing. While I’m not having to worry about that any more, Sundays still seem to be a little different from the rest of the week.
I’m not a big church goer, so I can’t comment about that, but I do know that I really miss being able to sit down on Sunday mornings and go through the entire, huge paper. I’d skip the ads, of course, and hand them over to my wife, known to many as She Who Must Know About The Latest Sales, while I’d read every single word of the editorial content. Those were the days.
Now, of course, with three little dudes in various states of little, Sunday mornings have become something a little more stressful. It’s time to get up, get a breakfast into everybody’s belly, get started on washing the clothes, try to get some exercise in for the day so the entire weekend isn’t an exercise wasteland, get the meals planned for the next week, go shopping for the next week, make dinner that night and, finally, try to find some time to myself before I go completely berzerk. So to speak.
Sundays. Day of rest, my @$$.
– Richard
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