A Good Day

Sunday is a good day for talking idly. It snowed yesterday, and I cleaned off my car this afternoon so I wouldn't have to do it tomorrow morning. If I had to do it tomorrow morning, well, I probably wouldn't. I would call in sick to work and spend Monday sniffing my dirty clothes and sorting them into piles labeled "Awful" and "Not So Awful." Then I would wash the "Awful" pile and dump it into the "Not So Awful" pile.

Sunday is a good day for not showering, but going grocery shopping nonetheless, with my scalp plainly visible under sleep-matted hair. I don't own any hats appropriate for the grocery store. And Sunday is a day of tolerance, so I tolerate the two women who park their shopping carts in the aisle and talk to each other, cop-style, so that even I with my basket over my head cannot pass. I wait, checking out the price of various lentils.

Sunday is a good day for washing dishes. Washing dishes leads to woman thoughts like, "I bet that sack of shit in the other room is just growing fatter by the minute, inhaling Chex Mix, and why isn't he helping? Oh, football. Football. I should take another yellow pill." And, as I close the hot water tap, I'm reminded that there is football on TV, and I have Chex Mix and yellow pills.

Sunday is a good day.