Sundays

My cheery optimism that life will get better slips a little on Sunday mornings. Mondays are not a problem. Going to work is something to do. Something meaningful and distracting. In fact I can't sleep in on Sundays. I was awake at 6am. Weekdays I keep pressing the snooze and force the covers off.

The weekend is a reminder of my personal pergatory. My boring single life.

I don't want to moan and complain. So many times I've switched off the brain, got into gym outfit, my cossie or yoga pants and exercised the morning away. Cooked for lunch and looked forward to afternoon naps. It feels hollow. All this time and space to do anything you want.

I can be self-occupying. I love my own company and of others. But life is about sharing, having purpose and meaning. I spend my working life being self-directed. Writing lists, tasks and planning the day. The weekend is meant to be the opposite, the antidote to work. More about play and rest and the personal, including personal obligations, such a family and friends outtings.

Sunday mornings is when it all hits. I can do Saturday nights at home. A few glasses of red, tucked up on the couch, and with 2 seasons worth of The West Wing to get through, I'm supremely self-occupied.

This morning it was too quiet. There's no-one there. The inside me wants a cuddle, wants a hand to flop over my waist, to feel the warmth or hairiness of another being. Wants a reason to stay in bed and enjoy the quiet.