I grew up listening to The Bangles crooning about Manic Mondays. I have a song of my own playing in my mind though and it´s called, "Manic Sunday".
I feel Sunday is the most chaotic day in my week. That´s the day when I am horribly behind schedule. Breakfast and lunch is always in quick succession. Bath seems like an unlikely possibility as uninvited friends show up wanting to brunch with you. As you dig into the refrigerator wishing for a miracle called leftovers, frozen food or anything distinctly edible, people walk around dripping beer ( they call it condensation off the can) on the carpet you managed to brush the day before. As you smile patiently and wait for the hurricane to pass, the phone rings and it´s your mother wanting to catch up with you. It´s not her fault really. It is a Sunday after all. Most normal people spend it in bed/hammock. I am running around ensuring that people have enough to eat at the table and that there is ice in the freezer.
I love entertaining, mind you. However, I appreciate notice. A week preferably. It gives me time to be a diva then. Answer the door looking like I got back after a rejuvenating massage at the Four Seasons. As I offer my cheek for the customary peck, I am confident that it´s the reassuring smell of Gucci and not perspiration greeting the kisser.
A woman has to be presentable at all times is what I was told by an aunt. She was also the one insisting that I go to Finishing School. She would give polite disapproving looks every time I tucked my feet under me on a particularly slow afternoon. Or when I dug into my spaghetti with relish after a particularly depressing day at work. She never lived with us but somehow was always hovering around making observations.
Not that it ever worked on me. Even today, if caught unawares, you will find me in my faithful pyjamas and t- shirt that have seen several birthdays without giving up on me .
I love the life I lead on the rest of the days. Just don´t expect the best out of me on Sundays. It´s a losing battle that day.
