Con #5: Once about 8pm hits on Sunday evening, it’s like somebody died. Everyone gets quiet, there’s high tension and emotion, we make eye contact with one another but nobody wants to speak the thought we’re all sharing. Nobody wants to say, that dreaded term. On Sunday evenings, the word ‘Monday’ is to us, what Voldemort is to Harry Potter — it-which-must-not-be-named. It’s as if we know what we’re facing. Another work week. Another five days of brutal, gruesome, awful work. Okay, so that’s a gigantic exaggeration and we should be grateful to have jobs, but seriously – we need a name for the grievance period that takes place on Sunday nights. Let’s call it Sunday Cerulean. (Cerulean was my favorite Crayola crayon as a kid. It’s a shade of blue. Sunday nights make us sad. Blue means sad. Henceforth, Sunday Cerulean.)
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