Sunday. Who wants to do anything on Sunday? Raise your hands. I do not raise my hand. I'm sitting on the couch in front of the computer watching the dailies. I must say that since I have the internet at home I feel more 'informed' of what is happening in the world. I read a bit 'newspapers. But later again almost immediately in my own world and oblivious of others. Do not we all? I continue to live ever more in my world. Sundays are my world gray, slow, dragging like a snail without a destination. Every Sunday I think it will be different every Monday. It will be more colorful, faster, more full of hope that the week is one to remember. And then comes another Sunday. And last week I do not remember anymore. When I was little
Sundays in summer were 'on the ice'. It was a Sunday that my mother gave clear instructions to my father when he took us to the bar below: "Remember: a single ice cream each and anything with preservatives or dyes." My father was following orders, even though almost pretending to forget them "when my brother asked the pink and blue jelly with hopeful eyes. "No preservatives or dyes, so that the chocolate milk was the only choice. We went out to eat so much ice cream you want, while my mother watched from the window of kitchen and greeted us with a sweet smile. The smile that I still see when I talk about something that reminds me of those times.
In winter, Sundays were 'on the day of the chestnuts'. It was a Sunday that my father went to the market and bought a pound of chestnuts in the oven to make the evening before our greedy eyes. The soup of vegetables and chestnuts is still my favorite dinner on Sunday evening when it's dark out already and feel the gentle rain on the window and blowing wind, while inside it's warm and there's a comedy on TV.
was on Sunday I watched on TV with my mother at 6 in the afternoon, the 'Top of the Pop', a program where I looked at Tina Turner with her hair the strangest I have ever seen and even Michael Jackson in his 'leather', dancing back and forth in "Thriller" with a lot of people fearful for my little eyes. I was about 5 or 6 years and I was happy lying on the couch with my mother, laughing at Tina Turner "the lioness," as we call it, while my father cooked chestnuts.
Today I feel so much the lack of those Sundays carefree, full of pleasant childhood slowness. Now Sundays are empty, and the joy is gone. In its place is the stress of thinking that tomorrow is Monday and have to go to work. Tap to get up early and run to not get late, do in 8 hours what ideally should be done in 12, but no time, no time. There's never time. The days are not enough, sometimes you must stand still in the evenings at the computer to finish a project, because there's nothing else to do tomorrow and there will be other deadlines.
So although Sundays are empty and gray, I lie on the couch and watch TV or 'surfing' a bit 'on the Internet with the pleasure of knowing that the end is still Sunday. And I have all day to enjoy the slow pace that I want the whole week. Tomorrow is Monday. But who cares? :)
