It hits me
every Sunday afternoon.
It's the flip side of TGIF (thank God, it's Friday). The weekend, which started with such bright promise, is now inexorably rolling toward a conclusion. Even if things are going right, those Sunday blues have mysteriously reappeared, bringing mild depression, echoes of loneliness, or a twinge of malaise or melancholy.
Not everyone gets them, and it is impossible to quantify how many people do, but the anecdotal evidence is there. If people are asked whether they have a downward mood swing by late Sunday afternoon, chances are they will recognize the symptoms and confess that the visitation shows up like clockwork. I had the attention span of kelp today. There were things I should have done--cleaned a few boxes out of the cellar, vacuumed,
written something. I sent off my Denvention programming thing, but I still haven't finished the questions for an interview site, and I should've at least worked on the short story or maybe plotted the mainstream suspense thing that's pinging around in my brain.
I did do three loads of laundry. Made the cornish hen, which came out pretty well. But I should've done more. That's the thing that gives me the Sunday Blues. I should've done more, and I knew it even as I puttered and wasted time.