Thoughts That Occur On A Sunday

Sunday. The day of rest traditionally, but now a day filled with impending doom as we wait for The Big M. It always starts well but as the hours tick on you start to write lists in your head, watch the clock and contemplate quitting the job you actually find alright. Reality bites.

You calculate your odds on the Lottery.
There's nothing like ignoring the reality of Monday by putting the Lottery on, and  imagining how you would spend it. After that, you sit down an check the odds of actually being able to have all those pounds. Turns out you've got more chance of being struck by lightning, being eaten by a shark or actually enjoying Monday (this one is, on the whole, hypothetical).

Staying up as late as possible to 'make the most' of Sunday.
Whether this means binging on Netflix or going out for dinner, Sunday will not end. Even if it's 2am, and technically Monday morning, in your mind it is definitely, without a shadow of a doubt, still Sunday.

Despising every single lunch choice.
After a weekend of chilled cooking, meals out and slices of cake, your work lunch just isn't up to standard. So far, you've filled the box up with fruit, yoghurt and whatever else you can find. You consider soup or leftovers, but the deathly creatures living in the staffroom microwave bring you back to earth. Cold food only. Shudder.

Your work wardrobe sucks.
It's the same scenario as the lunch thing to be honest. You get to wear whatever you want at the weekend, lipstick included, and enjoy feeling so badass and fashion forward. And then you look in your wardrobe and it's black jeans and a top 'til Friday. And definitely no lipstick.

Zombie apocalypse.
With Monday lingering, you sit down and seriously start to think a real life zombie infestation wouldn't really be that bad. As long as you can run/drive/fight/hide, you'll be fine. Which is pretty much all you do on a Monday anyway. You run for the bus, you drive to work, you fight with the photocopier/coffee machine/fellow colleague and you most definitely hide for fear of being asked for the 17th time what you did at the weekend.

Sleep.
On Friday night you promised yourself a lie in on Saturday. You woke up at 7.30am. On Saturday, you promised yourself a lie in on Sunday. You woke up at 6.30am. On Sunday, you promise yourself you'll get out of bed as soon as you hear your alarm. You end up running for the bus.

Friday. 
Only four days until the weekend. And then those two precious day will be over quicker than your Monday morning.