So, it’s Sunday and life just stinks.

It’s not the weather. Why, it’s 80 perfect degrees out there, with a lemon-yellow sun hanging in a perfect blue sky.

It’s not for lack of fun. Why, the old gang is gathered in yonder backyard for a weekend barbecue. The smell of sizzling burgers and corn on the cob hangs in the air like a cartoon finger made of fragrant smoke.

There’s baseball on the tube. Kids are running everywhere, chasing bees and soap bubbles. Dogs bolt after floating frisbees, barking madly and grinning their dog grins. Smiles on every face. All our friends are hale and healthy and all is right with the world.

Except that it’s Sunday and life just stinks.

What ails this day is a niggling. A feeling. The ghost of long-ago Sundays that can not be vanquished. It’s the smell of leftover roast warming in the oven. It’s the rancid memory of homework, alarm clocks, frowning teachers and the vast tomb classrooms that smell like tired, dirty children.

It’s been a quarter century since I stepped foot in any classroom and yet the specter of schoolhouse Mondays haunts me, making every Sunday rank and gloomy no matter what is happening externally.

I could be in Tahiti, drunk on rum on a hedonistic get away where the names of days cease to matter. I could be free of any mortal commitments; all clocks and calendars cast into the ocean. No matter. When Sunday rolls around, I’ll feel it like a damp wind or a mouthful of chalk. Sunday throws its freezing shadow across everything, including time. Sunday has become death, the destroyer of worlds.

I’m not crazy, you know. When I speak of these late-weekend woes to others, half of them give me solemn nods and no more need be said. Yep. It’s Sunday. We might as well be at a funeral that lasts all day.

The other half thinks I’m a drooling lunatic.

“Are you stupid?” they will rave, all waving arms and flying spittle. “Sunday is a day off. A day of rest. You can sleep late, watch football, drink beer, eat big dinners and sit on the couch for hours making gross bodily noises. Sunday is your reward for the previous six days of toil. Moron.”

Hey, why are you making it personal?

For some, it’s a day of worship. For others, a chance to get caught up on all those little chores you put off earlier in the week. For me, it’s a big, stinking pile sitting on my calendar, a rank warning that ALL GOOD THINGS MUST END. It’s like a big stern man frowning at you, tapping his watch to remind you of the time. Getting late, my friend. Time to put all your toys away and start thinking about school and work and other icky commitments. Sunday is a bucket of cold water poured upon your romantic minglings. A pin in your balloon. A cop at your party.

I don’t like Sundays, my friend. Don’t like them at all. I don’t like them in summer; I don’t like them in fall.

Now, eat that leftover meatloaf, lad. Take your bath, do your homework and then straight to bed, little mister. I don’t care if you’re a 50-year-old billionaire who owns his own island and a couple airlines. It’s Sunday! It’s the law!

Geesh, maybe I AM crazy. But can you blame me? In autumn, with its early dark and butt-slap cold, every day feels like Sunday. Which means that for months, I’m trapped in a Hell of them, doomed to repeat the dreaded day over and over while you people ooh and ah about colored leaves and the joy of gourds. Yesterday was Sunday, today is Sunday and tomorrow will be Sunday, too.

It seems like there should be a rhyme there, but who has time? I have to go take a bath.

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