Sundays have never been a friend of mine. My day starts late (sleeping in is a friend of mine, or rather, a bothersome conjoined twin without which I can't, well, live) and then by afternoon, I'm steeped in dread up to my armpits. From the small and personal, I don't want to go to work tomorrow, this apartment is a disaster, quickly giving way to what if I hate being a parent, would my life right now disappoint my young self, and oh god there are entire villages of toxic western electronic waste in China and it's sort of my fault. I should point out that I'm not falling apart, but I end up so annoyed by this chorus that I try to distract myself from its leaden pull as long as possible. Maybe I'll daisychain a punishing run with meeting a friend out for drinks with watching some indulgent series on Netflix until late. It does mean, however, that the kitchen floor stays matte with unmoppedness, that I can't get to bed at a decent hour from rising so late, that the fridge's four contents are rotten or close, and I tumble into Monday so unprepared. Every week, a babe in the goddamned woods come Monday morning.
And as I've felt senselessly low these past weeks, like I've been squinting to see my life through lake water, I didn't expect much from yesterday at all. 'What doesn't Sunday makes you Monday' or something. Nick had a date to buy a bicycle off Craigslist out in America (a.k.a. an hour's drive north), but the seller moved up the meeting time unexpectedly and he was on his way out the door by the time I joined the living. "I would love for you to come but we have to leave right now." I was able to reanimate, don proper pants, and put a Clif bar into my dome in 2 minutes flat.
We hit excruciating standstill traffic (an accident? a spill?) on the highway and took the slow, slow backroads. The seller didn't give up on us though, and Nick was able to buy the bike (in great condition and a total steal, I feel he would want me to mention) and load it into our little red car. Without the specter of a timeline, we got home slow. We stopped at a strange and lonesome yard sale, with displays on makeshift shelving rambling in clusters throughout the front of the property. All the Ball jars and novelty tea sets were pooling water and collecting leaves, like they had been outside for days (years?). We became briefly nervous that this was not a yard sale at all, but a sort of sad permanent installation, and that our consumer-ly presence was insulting. Soon, others arrived because yes of course this was a yard sale. A small wood shed on the property housed several lifetimes of toys, games, and damp magazines. The man with the yellow mustache sold us a comic, some magazines, and the space propaganda cup for $5.
We stopped again at a thrift store north of town so I could nab a few outstanding elements to my Halloween costume. Nick picked up some winter commuting gear and I found a giant scarf. Our car smelling like other people's stuff, we arrived home four hours after we'd left.
For the rest of the afternoon, I felt charmed into a sort of impervious state of amusement. Smiling to myself while doing things I do not enjoy, like laundry, like paying bills, like scooping litter. I floated from room to room as though suspended by wires from my own weightless mood. And as I set out clean clothes for Monday, and packed my lunch, packed my gym clothes, made my bed, it felt like I was casting a little protective spell over my week. Go be a person in clean trousers, the incantation would be. Go be a person who has a healthy lunch. Go on, then.
Just the edge of the sprawling yard sale
Not kidding at all about the rolling out of bed thing. Yikes.
Fancy a drink?