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.