I once had a Sunday I hated. Or rather, a Sunday that hated me. Sunday is a much more prominent figure in the society that I live in than I am — many people know its name and plan all sorts of things upon meeting it. So even if there was some mutual hatred, Sunday is more entitled to have had initiated it.
Even more true, it was a Sunday that love-hated me. Surely there is no rootless hate; a hate always springs out of somewhere that is rather nice. Like how most irremediable bitter outcomes started out with good intention, a Sunday’s intention cannot be better. In the morning it had appeared with every precious gift it got hold of: a promise of indolence, as much sunshine as a San Francisco-bound Sunday can offer, a breeze that had tried hard to carry a pleasant whiff, a right amount of people on the street that altogether presented a balanced score of neuroticism.
And I appreciated it. But after a little while, the sheen of morningness faded, and by early afternoon the face of Sunday became tiresome to me, like a melodramatic friend. And things went pretty bad pretty quickly from there.
Looking back it is easy to admit that the cause of the downfall between me and Sunday is mine. I got greedy, possibly from having too good of a meeting with Saturday the day before and had raised the expectation too high. After all, all the joy and all the pain in the world are due to some mismatch of expectation and reality.
But there is another, more tractable culprit — my inability to reconcile with a nice situation that my whole life’s luck has worked up to bestow me.
Same as how I have a perfect job, live in a perfect year-round temperature, have around perfect friends and family, and end up mildly dissatisfied and keep bringing up wars with myself.
So that was how a Sunday ended up hating me, and I it. Truth is, there had existed a good rapport between us which could have easily facilitated a near-perfect encounter until I spoiled it.
But hate is a strong word. If anything, I am the mildest person you’d know in terms of word choice. I have a general timidity towards using words that suggest extremity. Because there’s always this question: what if another situation comes up that qualifies more of the word you have carelessly already given away? Like if I “love” this food, will I look like a fool when encountering better food but falling short of words to describe it?
How can one be absolutely certain in the use of a strong word before one sees the end of life? How can I “hate” a Sunday before I meet all the Sundays in my life?
So, me and my Sunday had a little clash. But it is mostly trite and borderline absurd and not to be remembered.