I used to hate Sunday. It was the day before school began. It was day before the mouse trap snapped. It was the day before hum-drum routines took us down. Sundays made me feel sad and nervous.

Friday was my day. Friday was the end of classes and the adventure of the weekend beginning. Friday was driving into Boston (or hitch-hiking into Boston. Say what?) in my dad’s old blue Buick Electra 225 (aka the blue bomb) and staying at my Harvard boyfriend’s commune-like house doing very college-y things when I was in high school (say what?). Friday was going to Vermont and downhill skiing. Friday was spending the night at my best friend’s house. Friday was all anticipation and who knows what will happen. Even if nothing did happen, Friday still had the fizz of anticipation.

Now it’s different. There’s still a shift on Friday. But it’s when the unwinding of the week begins. The spaciousness of the weekend starts its exhale. By Sunday, I can feel the full belly breath of it. Even if I have commitments. Or need to catch up on stuff. Or want to sink deeper into a manuscript. I love the langour of Sundays. The longer conversations. Preparing a delicious plate of food. The lingering over coffee.