The thing about Sundays...

Not my favorite day. Once upon a time, my big German grandmother, Ida Mae, would arrive early in her Studebaker to take me, just me, to mass. The rest of my family would still be lounging around in the pajamas, wiping syrup from their French toast off their smiling faces while I was wadding my skirt up under my knees and bearing Grandma's scowl whenever I rested by bottom on the pew behind me. In later years, Sunday was hangover day, trying to smile through pounding pain, which I, after all, aptly deserved. For a while, about at year, I went to church happily every Sunday morning, where Rev. Mary spoke eloquently of an all-loving God, and I would swell up with spirit. Then they began their campaign to buy property, begging me for money, and I stopped going. Now a meditation meeting is my spiritual wake-up call, not until 11 am, though, and bed-changing/laundry/studying take up the rest of the day. Maybe a walk in the neighborhood, later, when it cools down, and then, water the lawn. I woke today to a headache, perhaps an hommage to all those hangovers? Whatever, I am not the happiest camper in the tent this Sunday.