Dear Sunday

Dear Sunday,

Where, oh where do you go? Why do you always leave me hanging? Stuck like a raggedy t-shirt, dangling by a single clothespin on the line. A lonely child abandoned on the side of the road.

You are as ephemeral as that crisp shadow cast by the fading sunlight.

Fleeting.

Sunday, you are so fleeting.

When you first arrive, you act as if we have so many possibilities, you and I. A truly optimistic notion. Endless potential.

Sunday, just as I chase shadows, I chase you. I chase you with an insatiability I can’t describe. I want desperately all that you have to offer. But I never catch you. You slip through my fingers every time. The result is always the same. You walk away, without giving me even an inkling of what you promised upon your arrival. You leave me forlorn, staring into the abyss that is your reservoir of constantly unfulfilled promises.

The only concrete thing you have to offer me is that you will come again. Seven more days, and we can try again. We can try to make this work. Again.

As I watch you turn your back to me and leave, I can only say: “See you next time, Sunday.”

Trouble with Titles

I have trouble with titles: literally, figuratively, metaphorically.

A job title. A personal title. An email subject title. A blog post title. An essay title. Any kind of title. Any kind of label.

I write, and then I struggle with the title. A title says so much; in some ways it’s crucial. How to categorically (and creatively) label what I’ve written in a way that means something? Brevity has never been my strong suit.

I’ve always hated labels; perhaps this is why I have trouble with titles. I’ve never felt comfortable with the labels placed upon me:

• You are a ___________
• You live in a _________
• You drive a __________
• You eat _____________
• You drink ___________
• You value___________
• You vote ____________
• You make ___________
• You do _____________

While we could fill in the blanks of these mundane sentences—and they would indeed be true—what do they say about me? Nothing of any consequence.

Titles, boxes, labels—they are often how we define ourselves and others. But I don’t like them.

Yet still, I will fill in the blanks...

• I am: a woman who thinks of herself as a girl. Or a girl who thinks of herself as a woman.
• I live: in a lovely place in a lovely city.
• I drive: a car, a bike, my feet, and my life.
• I eat: anything that tastes delicious.
• I drink: water, wine, beer, coffee, and booze.
• I value: everything and nothing.
• I vote: when I feel like it and when I am informed enough to do so.
• I make: cookies, cakes, strings of words, photographs—and occasionally—others smile.
• I do: everything and nothing.

But don't put too much stock in any of these things, because I have trouble with titles.

Tomorrows, Todays, and Yesterdays

This obsession with the New Year is not something I can grasp. Some kind of naïve, fruitless, childlike hope that 2010 will cleanse us of the ‘horror’ that was 2009? Sure, there is something metaphorically wonderful about a fresh start, about a new thing, a new day, a new year to signify a new beginning. But metaphorically what does this mean? That we are wiping the slate clean, discarding all that has occurred thus far? What is this anyway, a race to the end?

My lackluster feelings about celebrating the arrival of a new year are often met with disgruntled and bewildered reactions. I am of the belief that the arrival of a new year is simply the arrival of another tomorrow, not unlike any other tomorrow we’ve experienced, nor the many more tomorrows that are likely to come. Upon being told my perspective is “depressing,” I am now the one faced with my own feelings of bewilderment. How is this depressing? To me, it is exactly the opposite.

I value, equally, every day of this existence—no matter how mundane, extraordinary, or even gloomy. I will not write off 2009 as a terrible year, like so many are. I will not write off any experience, nor wish any time away, nor see any day as more or less significant than any other.

Life is but a process, and I’m not really interested in racing to the end.

I was once sitting in a hot, steamy, uncomfortable laundromat in Rome, eagerly awaiting the final ten minutes on the clothes dryer so that I could get out of there and move on. As I watched the seconds ticking down on the red digital reader, the diminishing seconds suddenly became time-bomb-like, symbolically representing the diminishing seconds of my life. In that moment, I experienced an epiphany. I told myself then that I would never wish time away, no matter how uncomfortable it might be.

I’ll not trivialize this life experience by throwing out all the clichés about how precious life is and how we should be grateful for all that we have and blah, blah, blah. No. I will say it: Life sometimes sucks. Sometimes it even sucks ass. Shitty things happen, and life is not a fucking bowl of cherries. But I choose to see it as a process—not a means to an end. Process is fraught with ups and downs, agonies and ecstasies. Tomorrows become todays, and todays become yesterdays. And so it goes.

So here's to today, this day that is no more or less significant than any other. That is not depressing. That is beautiful. And that is life.