Once upon a time, Sundays were not a happy day. Somehow, Sunday — through no fault of its own, by sheer happenstance of sharing a time border with Monday (and by Monday, you must understand I mean to imply the LOOMINGness** of Monday) — was never appreciated for its full magic.
That, I am ever grateful to say, is long long in the past.
In fact, Sundays probably top the chart for me in terms of a favorite day — were I the type to play favorites, which I am totally not *pinky swear* — I think it’s better I simply say that Sunday and I are very well suited, very well matched.
Mondays are great if, you know, you like busy and active email boxes.
Tuesdays are sweet, sort of like that 10am stretch when you go back to pour a second coffee and it’s still hot.
Wednesdays are good because the muscles are warm, you are on pace, peeling off layers and loving the run.
Thursdays are hitting the view spot. You can see the weekend, you can taste that Happy Hour margarita and hear the crowd laughing.
Friday. Please, what’s not to love?
Saturday is a contender, for sure — but it mirrors Monday in a different way for me. Rich and filled with good things–but it’s also kind of a “stuff that has to get done day” cleaning, laundry, dog, car wash, errands, etc.
But then? There’s Sunday.
Sunday has no plans. Sunday doesn’t wear a watch. Sunday drifts and sits and has hours to read, to cook, to walk, to loll about.
Yeah, okay. I totally lied. Sunday, you’re my favorite.
**totally a real word