That lonely sinking Sunday feeling (LINK)
January 6th 2008 20:53
Sunday afternoons and I are not the best of friends. Whether it’s the descent from leisure-mode into work-mode with the prissiness of Monday morning just a sleep away, or some frigging Sunday pheromone in the air, I just get a lonely sinking feeling on a Sunday that no amount of caffeine or listening to Robbie Williams can dislodge.
Yesterday was a hot fuggy humid Sydney Sunday. To add it its little cocktail of oppressiveness. The swells down at the beach over the past few days have been so dangerous, the beaches have been closed. I swear – the lifeguards put up big signs ‘BEACH CLOSED’ which basically means if you try to swim here we will not come and rescue you – hasta la vista.
I lay on my bed in a pool of sweat and waited for Sunday to pass. My hubby suggested we take a walk down to the beach to see if we could have a swim. There was nothing else to do except fold the laundry. So we gathered up the irritable kids and made our way down.
When my son saw the sea, winking in the distance and dotted with swimmers, he broke into a run. I watched as he flung his little body into the surf and came up smiling.
I shuffled down to the water and as soon as it broke over my feet, I forgot about my lonely sinking Sunday feeling. The rule in my family is that a swim doesn’t count unless you dunk your head under which has earned me an anthology of titles such as ‘wimp,’ ‘woes’ and ‘chicken.’ One of my new year’s resolutions for 2008 is to worry less about the waste of expensive products I use on my scalp and just GET WET. So I got wet. Energy danced inside me like when I was a kid. My son splashed me. Don’t you love that? How kids splash you when you’re already wet? I splashed him back. I really wasn’t feeling that lonely anymore.
I then sat with my hubby on the beach. Two young women sat down next to us, the one worrying about the fact that she’d grabbed her black bra instead of her black bikini top on her way out. The other assured her that ‘no-one would notice.’ The bikini top-left-at-home one wasn’t convinced. The other told her, in a whisper that ‘sometimes women even go into the surf topless here.’ The other shook her head. ‘Remember Greece?’ the friend reminded her. And in those two words I could feel the whole story of their friendship, backpacks, tequila shots and swarthy flirtations. She got into the water – with her black bra on. Really, no-one but me noticed.
A man as old as the earth made his way down to the water in underpants as old as himself. They sagged off him like a heavy toddler’s diaper. His body was roped with wrinkles and craggy with a lifetime of sun baking. ‘Those underpants are coming off,’ my husband said. We chuckled. We watched as he waded into the waves which tugged at his undies. But they clung on for dear life.
Then a man sat down in front of us holding the hand of his beautiful son. It took me a moment to notice from the way he was holding his arms that his son was mentally disabled. My husband and I sat in silence as we watched his father take him down to the water to get his feet wet, and run with him across the sand.
My husband looked at me and I looked at him.
My lonely sinking Sunday feeling had gone. Stalled by the stories of lives around me, and the blessings of sunshine and my able-bodied children screeching in the water, uneclipsed by a nameless Sunday misery.
Yesterday was a hot fuggy humid Sydney Sunday. To add it its little cocktail of oppressiveness. The swells down at the beach over the past few days have been so dangerous, the beaches have been closed. I swear – the lifeguards put up big signs ‘BEACH CLOSED’ which basically means if you try to swim here we will not come and rescue you – hasta la vista.
I lay on my bed in a pool of sweat and waited for Sunday to pass. My hubby suggested we take a walk down to the beach to see if we could have a swim. There was nothing else to do except fold the laundry. So we gathered up the irritable kids and made our way down.
When my son saw the sea, winking in the distance and dotted with swimmers, he broke into a run. I watched as he flung his little body into the surf and came up smiling.
I shuffled down to the water and as soon as it broke over my feet, I forgot about my lonely sinking Sunday feeling. The rule in my family is that a swim doesn’t count unless you dunk your head under which has earned me an anthology of titles such as ‘wimp,’ ‘woes’ and ‘chicken.’ One of my new year’s resolutions for 2008 is to worry less about the waste of expensive products I use on my scalp and just GET WET. So I got wet. Energy danced inside me like when I was a kid. My son splashed me. Don’t you love that? How kids splash you when you’re already wet? I splashed him back. I really wasn’t feeling that lonely anymore.
I then sat with my hubby on the beach. Two young women sat down next to us, the one worrying about the fact that she’d grabbed her black bra instead of her black bikini top on her way out. The other assured her that ‘no-one would notice.’ The bikini top-left-at-home one wasn’t convinced. The other told her, in a whisper that ‘sometimes women even go into the surf topless here.’ The other shook her head. ‘Remember Greece?’ the friend reminded her. And in those two words I could feel the whole story of their friendship, backpacks, tequila shots and swarthy flirtations. She got into the water – with her black bra on. Really, no-one but me noticed.
A man as old as the earth made his way down to the water in underpants as old as himself. They sagged off him like a heavy toddler’s diaper. His body was roped with wrinkles and craggy with a lifetime of sun baking. ‘Those underpants are coming off,’ my husband said. We chuckled. We watched as he waded into the waves which tugged at his undies. But they clung on for dear life.
Then a man sat down in front of us holding the hand of his beautiful son. It took me a moment to notice from the way he was holding his arms that his son was mentally disabled. My husband and I sat in silence as we watched his father take him down to the water to get his feet wet, and run with him across the sand.
My husband looked at me and I looked at him.
My lonely sinking Sunday feeling had gone. Stalled by the stories of lives around me, and the blessings of sunshine and my able-bodied children screeching in the water, uneclipsed by a nameless Sunday misery.
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Comment by AmyHuang
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Although I must say I am not a fan of Sunday nights - it means tomorrow I've gotta go back to work!
Comment by Cibbuano
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...but yeah, it was hot yesterday. We wanted to walk around the harbour, but we had to bail on that plan...
Comment by tlcorbin
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This has been an non political, secular, non compensated, and unsolicited endorsement of Sunday.....
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Comment by secretwritersbusiness
Jo
Comment by Ash
Australian Traveller
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I love moments in life like this - and you captured it so well.
Ash