One day runs into another

Soon after my retirement, one of my auction pals asked me if I’d forgotten the day of the week yet.

“It will happen,” he said.

“It already has,” I said.

That’s the thing about not waking up to an alarm clock. Sometimes I open my eyes and just ponder where I’m at in that moment. I can’t always grasp the day but I do know I can be lazy if I want.

The one time that still feels the same is Sunday night. I often get the Sunday Night Anxious, as I think of it. This would be the signal that the too-short-weekend was over and Monday would arrive too early and often too awful for my unprepared mind.

I felt like that last night, even though I no longer set an alarm and I rarely scoot off anywhere in a hurry. Mostly, I go out in the backyard to put another coat of a paint on a repurpose project, wander out to the boulevard to pull weeds, or hop on the bike for a trip to the library.

I don’t know when I’m likely to recover from the Sunday Night Anxious. Maybe never. After all those years of work and school,  I think it’s now  part of my DNA.

Here’s what I do know: The alarm clock sits idle nowadays, I often read late into the night just because I can, and I don’t fret too much wondering what day of the week it is.



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