Sundays Are for The Existential Dread

It’s Sunday. And I just want to say I’m never ready for Monday. LIKE NEVER.

The minute I open my eyes, I get moody. Maybe it’s the stillness. Maybe it’s the looming to-do list. Or maybe it’s just my internal settings refusing to accept that the weekend is almost over.

Laundry is piling up. I like separating everything. Mine, my daughter’s, my husband’s, and undergarments. That’s four cycles in one day. Four. And the folding? The arranging? The neatly-put-away-so-nobody-says-anything chore that waits for me at night? Fuhhh. Just thinking about it makes my shoulders ache.

If there’s ever an AI that can handle laundry start to finish I’m talking sorting, washing, drying, folding, putting things away I will be the first to click the Buy Now button. No second thoughts.

Also, can someone please explain why homework only comes out on Sundays? Why not Friday night when the energy is high? Or Saturday morning after breakfast? No. It’s always Sunday. Like a jump scare. Every week.

And then there’s my husband, who somehow, like clockwork, manages to sleep in every Sunday. I wish my body could do that. But my internal alarm is punctual. Every. Single. Day. No exceptions.

It’s almost 6pm now. I’m going to spend whatever’s left of this Sunday with my two favourite human beings before Monday creeps in. We’ll probably try to relax, eat something decent, and pretend the weekend isn’t ending.

How does your Sunday usually look like?

Because mine? Tired. But still showing up.