Why are Sundays so painfully depressing?
I once read an article by a sociologist or a social psychologist or an anthro-socio-something-or-other about this very matter.
He had some theories but I can’t remember what they were.
As far as I recall, though, he actually had some pretty conclusive evidence which showed that suicide attempts increased on Sundays.
It’s a bit too predictable to point to the imminent arrival of another week of wage-slavery as the reason for people’s black moods.
But how else can we explain it?
Is there some vague collective guilt at the fact that we now routinely ignore the day’s religious obligations?
My girlfriend vehemently disagrees with me on this. To her, Sunday is a day full of possibilities.
She looks forward to long autumnal walks, drinking coffee at a cosy cafe, snuggling up on the sofa or visiting a museum.
I enjoy all of these things but, to me, doing them on a Sunday is always accompanied with a vague feeling of dread.
Where Fridays seem alive with possibilities, Sundays feel laboured and funereal.
I just want to curl up and wait for the day to pass!
It’s frustrating because, come Saturday evening, I’m already dreading another bout of Sunday blues.
I remember one particular Sunday from my childhood which might go some way to explaining my negativity towards the day.
When I was around 10, my parents thought it was a good idea if I had some self-defence lessons and so I started going to karate at the Town Hall.
The lessons took place every Sunday and as far as I recall, I quite enjoyed them.
My dad would come and pick me up and, if we were quick enough, we always made it home in time for my favourite TV show – The Little Princess. (Before you ask, no, I’m not gay. Though maybe it was a close-run thing.)
One Sunday we came home and, to my horror, it wasn’t on.
Had we missed it? Had the series finished? What had become of my beloved little princess?
I have absolutely no idea.
All I remember is the crushing disappointment of that moment.
Sundays would never be the same again.