“Sundays are family days, the days where the rhythms of church and brunch and afternoon football ease you into rest before the workweek begins.
Sunday is the brief intermission before putting on tailored pants, brushing your hair, and working for a vested 401(k).
I would venture to guess that fewer people floss on Sundays than, say, on Tuesdays. But then again, I tend to forget to floss on Tuesdays, too.
On Saturday most people run errands. You go to the grocery store or Home Depot or the dry-cleaners so that on Sunday you can stay home. That is, unless you are a parent of school-age children, in which case you probably spend Sundays carting children and orange slices around in an enormous SUV so you can cheer for stampedes of uniformed confusion. I mean so you can watch them play soccer.
Ideally, Sundays are when you allow your most authentic self to emerge and stick around, the self that wakes up slowly and lingers in faded sweatpants while you drink coffee from a favorite mug that has a picture of a cat on it. You don’t even like cats, but you love this mug for reasons you cannot explain. It has a brown ring around the inside from overuse, a tattoo of affection.
Or on Sundays maybe you pad around the house in thick socks that were gifted to you as a white elephant from a coworker at an office Christmas party. They are truly horrible. And you know this. You laughed when you unwrapped them. You rolled your eyes with false annoyance. But now you wear them every Sunday with an untied bathrobe and wild hair that’s matted on one side. Because it is Sunday.
Sunday is a day of rest, a Sabbath, and most of us only know how to relax in familiar places, around familiar people, doing familiar things. We sleep best in our own beds. We rest in the parameters of routine. So my theory is that if you want to know the most organic part of a person, ask them what they do on Sunday.”
~ Bekah DeFelice, Almost There, Searching for Home in a Life on the Move