Chinese Finger Trap

There is such a world of difference between Saturday night and Sunday night. If they were siblings, Saturday night would be the charismatic, good-looking athlete of the family. Sunday night would have an unfortunate need for head-gear orthodontia, a deviated septum, an affinity for math, eat only smelly sandwiches, and no one, I repeat, no one would like Sunday night. That is how depressing Sunday night is.

Stage one of Sunday night is denial. No, another week is not upon me. It is still the weekend. So naturally, you stay up late to fight the break of dawn, so to speak (thank you, Eagle Eye Cherry). Then you feel even more tired and cranky come Monday morning. Oh, and Monday morning would be your super crabby and strict elderly relative.

When I was full-time at the bookstore, I didn't mind Sunday night. I laughed vindictively at all of the Facebook posts complaining about Sunday night. That's because I worked weekends, so Sunday nights were more of a Wednesday night for me. Wednesday obviously being your weird, braided hair, nine-year-old Adams family cousin.

But now that I am working at a middle school, I feel the pain of Sunday. I want another day to sleep in. It's not that I don't like my job. I do. I'm having fun, learning a lot, and the people I work with are nice. One co-worker is even super, super cute. But I digress.

The only cure for a bad case of the Sundays is not to fight it. How much energy do I waste by trying to fight the inevitable? There are so many things I cannot change, but I would if I could. My instinct is to mentally, emotionally, and sometimes physically struggle against the things I don't like. It's just like those Chinese finger traps I'd get as a prize at school carnivals or local fairs. They were cheap pieces of origami woven to tighten around your two index fingers if you tried to pull your fingers out too quickly or forcefully. If you didn't struggle, if you went against your natural instict and actually pushed your fingers more into the trap, you'd be released from your tiny prison. Amazing.

It's sort of the same perspective I have to take with painting. I can't expect a finished painting to just appear from my brushstrokes. I have to make mistakes, keep painting over imperfect shapes, smudge lines, etc. I painted on the back porch tonight. I attempted to do a portrait of Lincoln (based on a Maira Kalman portrait of Lincoln) with cheap oil pastels on this really thick, rough paper that I think is intended for oil pastels. It's not finished yet and in retrospect I see how I should have used more layers at the beginning, been more careful not to let my hands smear the black oil, etc. but I'll be a little bit better next time.



But for now, I am surrendering to Sunday night. I definitely need as much sleep as I can to shield me from 5:30 a.m. I'm also beginning to get sick, I think. Sore throat, headache, blocked nasal passages variety. Maybe if I move very slowly and get a lot of rest these next few days, I can trick this illness into releasing me from its clutches.