The best part of a weekend is naturally Friday evening.
There’s this sensation that you have all this free time before you. In fact, I think it’s quite remarkable how far my mind is willing to stretch in thinking about the ways in which I could leisurely spend the weekend.
(Of course, the converse is also true. The worst part of a weekend is Sunday evening. And my habitual activity for that time is worrying—if not panicking—about the obligations I have to attend to the next morning.)
On Fridays, there’s a freedom that comes with ignoring the Monday ahead. It’s almost certainly two full days away, and that’s far enough for me to write it off as “in the somewhat distant future.”
But time is fickle over a weekend. Sunday evening arrives in fleeting hours, while I’ll still think it’s Saturday afternoon.
I imagine this is all common knowledge. As you should know, any reasonable person who has a weekend off knows they can’t relax for most of a Sunday on account of the Monday which follows.
However, I also argue that the second best part of a weekend is Sunday morning. And it’s also the period of time over a weekend I often appreciate the most.
Sunday Mornings
First of all, I find I still wake up with the relaxed pace befitting a weekend schedule. For the first little while, the mind is distracted by the little things part of any comforting routine: perhaps some type of beverage (warm perhaps), hopefully a decent breakfast (though, for me, not too heavy), and some idea of leisure to brighten the mood (maybe a book).
Soon after, the inevitability of tomorrow sets in. I’m increasingly keen to start thinking about the few hours left in the day. The worries of the outside world begin to furtively invade the subconscious, and that project or assignment you were working on starts appearing with an uneasy prominence.
Yet the morning is also when I’m able to temporarily repress these worries. What fills the gap is an introspective and higher consciousness that seeks distraction in the mundane.
It would seem that once the nagging feeling of Monday starts, it’s ever-present behind-the-scenes, preventing one from turning on a TV or scrolling through their phone for long periods of time.
However, being halfway on edge, neither willing to do work nor seek actual leisure, I find I end up wallowing in the small moments I would otherwise not make an effort to appreciate in my attempts to “pass the time”. Little things: the wind, the sensation of a pen on paper, the very act of staring at the clouds.
On Sunday mornings I begin to feel anxious, but I gravitate to appreciating little pleasures to come to terms with it. For that, I sometimes look forward to Sunday; for that, I am frequently grateful.
This is all assuming, of course, that you go to bed not too late the Saturday prior. If you wake up on Sunday past noon, it will be quite unfortunate for the next few hours as you anguish in the lack of time left in the weekend.
Personally, I find that to be a terrifying prospect—one which I have experienced a few times too many.