I don’t know if this is necessarily kosher (by the rules that we established and are in charge of enforcing), but I spent a fair amount of time this afternoon thinking about Diggy’s blerng.

I’ve never had a problem with Saturdays — but I’ve never been any good at Sundays.

Part of it, of course, is genetic.  Recently, I was at my parents’ house and noticed my dad sort of staring off into space with a vaguely disquieted expression.

“You okay, Dad?”

“Yeah.  Just thinking about all the stuff I have to do at work.”

“Ah.  Well, but you don’t have to go back to work until tomorrow.”

“Actually, it’s the day after.”

So, dating back to the era when I felt the need to pre-live my days, Sundays were a bunch of dangerous unscheduled time, and I’d revert to minor panic attacks and a lot of staring into space with a vaguely disquieted expression.

When I lived in Minnesota (pre-campaign), I discovered an interesting cure: Sunday day-drinking!  It wasn’t so much the alcohol that helped as it was the institution — a thing to do on Sunday that (unlike volunteer service or church or something actually worthwhile) didn’t require me to un-relax but did provide some kind of structure.

Well.  You know what I learned today?  I’m getting better at Sundays.  Sure, I still don’t have a lot of initiative to follow through on hobbies or anything like that (which means I still spend a fair amount of time staring off into space), but now it’s sort of pleasant to have that mental space.  I’m getting either better at relaxing or worse at planning out my weeks.

Also, on a note only related because my Sunday what-do-I-dos led me into the arms of the DVR, the Gil-moves-in-with-the-Simpsons episode is pretty much the weirdest one ever.

-andy