Seconds pass slowly/as years go flying by

[penfield]

"How happy is he born and taught,
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
and simple truth his utmost skill."
- Sir Henry Wotton


Every Sunday at about 7:00 p.m., when the sun begins to set and the sky turns orange and pink, my weekend joy is colored by a mild sense of incipient dread. It's a small-scale version of the back-to-school foreboding felt by every youthful spirit around this time of year.

J. noticed this as we were walking home from the grocery store.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Ehh, nothing," I replied.

"Why are you walking so slowly?" she asked.

"I don't want the weekend to end yet," I replied. I thought about it for a moment. "I'm not looking forward to this week."

"What's happening this week?" she asked.

"Well, I, uhh..." I stammered. This week is bound to be little different from last week, when the minutes crept by, dragging with them the dull priorities, drudgerous mandates and mindless administrative work that so commonly populates my August recess agenda. "I guess I just don't want to go back to work."

"Well, that's just one day," J. thoughtfully deconstructed. "Worry about the rest of the week after that."

"You're right," I resolved. "I should just be dreading one day at a time."

Comments

[(Anonymous)]

She's a smart girl...

[pooplord.livejournal.com]

As far as I know, we are in the same city, and the sun doesn't do anything close to setting at 5pm in August. But nice try. (I have end-of-weekend dread as well; it sometimes lasts all Sunday long.)

[enchanted-pants.livejournal.com]

OK, I guess it was actually 7:30, since Baseball Tonight was already on when we got home. But it felt more like 5:12 or 5:14.