Sundays have always been a source of discomfort for me. Referencing the renowned work of Douglas Adams in Life, The Universe and Everything, there’s a poignant depiction of an immortal being burdened by the weight of existence, particularly on Sundays—the day when the emptiness of it all becomes glaringly apparent, leading to what Adams dubs “the long, dark teatime of the soul.” This term perfectly encapsulates that familiar sensation we all experience on a Sunday afternoon; when the weekend’s chores are completed, but enthusiasm has long since evaporated. I can’t comment on the sentiments of those across the pond, but here in the UK, this “teatime of the soul” often feels particularly prolonged and dismal.
The Sunday Experience in Britain
During my childhood, Sundays were characterized by a relentless boredom. The concept of a day of rest originates from the Genesis narrative, where God, after creating the universe in six days, decided to rest on the seventh. If we ponder this, it raises intriguing questions—Why six days? Why measure time in days when time was yet to be invented? And why rest at all? Consequently, due to biblical principles, shops remained closed in Britain.
Deprived of consumer distractions and desperately seeking entertainment, we resorted to our television sets. Growing up in Britain meant having access to a mere four channels. Yes, just four! This limitation meant that one could either watch whatever was airing or not watch at all. Unfortunately, Sunday programming was notoriously lackluster.
Typical Sunday fare included antiques shows—about as riveting as watching paint dry—as well as a multi-part drama about the English Civil War that seemed to stretch on endlessly. Then there was the infamous quiz show Mastermind, where pale contestants answered obscure questions on cutlery history. To top it off, we had Last of the Summer Wine, a supposed comedy featuring three elderly men wandering Yorkshire with anticlimactic results. Usually, I would reach my breaking point and retreat to bed, feeling utterly defeated.
Adult Sundays: A Continuation of Disillusionment
As an adult, I anticipated a transformation in my Sunday experience, but I was sorely mistaken. Despite the influx of channels, the possibility of Sunday shopping, and various modern distractions, Sundays maintained their unique capacity to induce existential dread. If anything, these advancements have only amplified the day’s overwhelming essence—evident as you navigate a farmer’s market in search of artisanal cheese or stand in line at a garden center clutching a plastic pond liner. Purchasing something so unremarkable as a plastic liner for a pond is, quite frankly, an exercise in futility—you’re essentially buying a void.
So, why does Sunday evoke such feelings of despair? Through my own reflections on spending a significant portion of my life within this inescapable cycle, I’ve reached some tentative conclusions. Sunday embodies freedom; it’s the one day we can indulge in whatever we choose, absent of societal obligations. This day acts as a mirror, compelling us to confront that haunting question we typically evade: “What do I genuinely want to do?”
With the shackles of responsibility lifted, we are prompted to consider our true desires—beyond societal expectations and superficial aspirations. Not merely “What should I want?” or “What is anticipated of me?” but rather, “What do I truly wish to pursue?” This inquiry, intrinsically linked to the even more profound question of “Who am I?” can be unsettling.
Naturally, we shy away from such inquiries. They shine with an intensity that can blind us. Weekdays provide convenient distractions—work and routines shield us from confronting our true selves. Left with unstructured time, we often retreat into comfortable roles—shopping, gardening, or merely enduring the monotony of life—anything to escape those pressing questions. We define ourselves through these trivialities: “I’m the person who gets annoyed at the supermarket,” or “I’m the one mowing the lawn.”
Thus, my theory posits that we dread Sundays because they offer a glimpse of freedom. They challenge us to truly live, to create, to aspire. They coax us to embrace our potential, whether that means embarking on a thrilling adventure or simply reconnecting with ourselves. Sunday presents us with time—empty and unfilled—to see what we can make of it.
In conclusion, while Sunday holds the potential for existential reflection, it is often met with resistance. Instead of engaging with our inner selves, we find solace in mundane tasks, such as attempting to dig a hole for a plastic pond liner, all while grappling with our emotions.
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