Do you get it, too?

In my childhood house, Sundayitis started Sunday morning. The family room drapes were drawn, and my father would be sitting on the floor up against a recliner asleep..Next to an empty sandwich plate with a small pickle juice swamp in which swam the crusts. The room was dark and depressing, and the Ohio Lake Erie winter sun would set at 4:30-5 in the afternoon.

Kid Sunday anxiety always came to a crescendo at the tick, tick, tick of the 60 minutes stop watch, which STILL starts a line of consciousness that begins with homework and ends with not doing it. “I’ll get an A anyway.” It was true, but not enough to stuff anxiety’s maw with an ether-soaked rag. There were always a couple classes I REALLY needed to study for.

I waited til Sunday night for that.

And then the stage fright would kick in. 40 years later I still get the flop sweats.

Allow me to offer this antidote to Post Traumatic Sunday Disorder: Bob Ross on Netflix. 5 episodes is worth at least a Zoloft, 2 glasses of wine, and a Jacuzzi brain bath. AND you’ll likely catch an episode with Pea Pod the squirrel sitting in Bob’s permed afro. That’s just good TV, and goo-oo-ood for ya.

I’ll close with what you know is the truth: Nothing you imagine on Sunday night is as bad as Monday morning.

See you in the break room!



Written by Nancy Alexander