If Work has such merit, why do Sundays produce for so many such inexplicable dread? Sunday is ruined by the mere fact that it precedes Monday. Sunday afternoon gets bad and it’s all abysmal aversion from there on out. Do I hate my job? No. Do I hate waking up on Mondays and going to my job? Yes. That is a marked disconnect.
Retired people, or the eternally unemployed, don’t even know what day of the week it is. They wake up and have to think about it for a while, maybe even check the calendar, the computer, or their watch. Not the working class. For us, Monday, heralded by the cacophony of an alarm, is an unwelcome portal, an odious entryway from which one would, if one could, recoil. It is not so bad when one gets to Work; it might even become a pleasant day. It is the anticipation of it that is entirely repugnant.
Tuesday is better, Hump Day brings some relief and, as Thursday has become the new Friday, the rest is bearable. I have never understood why Monday is so detestable, except for the possible bitter awareness that one is a Cog in the Persistent Wheel of Very Questionable Production.
Hi Ho Hi Ho. Loathsome.