I hate Sunday night.
Every single week, without fail, for as long as I can remember, I experience a kind of temporary depression that I have come to refer to as the Sunday Night Blahs.
Sometime usually mid-afternoon on Sunday, an air of impending doom begins to set in. A powerless feeling comes over me as I watch the clock tick away, knowing there is nothing I can do to stop it or slow it down. Instead of enjoying the last hours of my weekend, I spend them largely in dread.
I become lethargic, often choosing to lie around watching television for hours, losing little battles as I try and convince myself to get out of bed and be productive. Even when I try and do something, I can never escape the overwhelming sense of time slipping away.
If I'm out on Sunday night, I'm never quite ready to come home. Alone, with friends, or on a date, it's always the same. I just want to drive around for an hour to ward off the inevitable for as long as possible. And some nights I have.
I'm not sure what causes the Sunday Night Blahs. I suppose the obvious best guess would be that it has something to do with the end of the weekend. But I think it's more than that.
Friday is free and full of promise. Saturday still has so much time. Friday and Saturday night, people are out. Places are open later. The streets are alive. But Sunday night is quieter. Lonelier. Emptier.
Sunday night knocks me down. It makes me sad, even when I've otherwise been completely happy and content. It leaves me lonesome, even when someone is lying next to me. It brings to mind things I've tried hard to forget. No matter how well things are going in my life, Sunday night causes me to stall.
A lot of people hate Monday, starting over at the bottom of that hill again. But I never had a problem with Monday. I'll be fine on Monday, because Monday means Sunday night is gone.
And I hate Sunday night.
"Come Monday, it'll be alright. Come Monday, I'll be holding you tight..."