I am so! glad! that I dodged the pitfall of heading straight to graduate school full-time after undergrad. I may have been deprived of knowing The Secret Pleasure of Sunday for years. Worse yet, it may indeed have eluded me entirely!
I had prepared for graduate school, merely dippy-toeing into the large volatile pool of graduate school applications during the fall of my senior year at Camp Allegheny. Slash, BBB, and I had ventured to Erie, PA to take the GRE. I had watched my score flash across the testing monitor. My test-taking conscience faintly whispered, "At least you didn't prepare that much." We all politely left the testing center and agreed to meet at Schmolive Garden later. That evening, it was clear that BBB had emerged victoriously from the GRE (natch, he was the Smartest Camper at Camp Allegheny). It was only after Slash and I were clearly searching for a shred of our intelligence at the bottom of the breadsticks basket that we realized our mutual chagrin from the GRE. But then my friend Micky Hipps rolled up and talked about her craptacular Anatomy Professor which successfully diverted our attention away from our Craptacular GRE Scores just long enough to enjoy our meal.
When I returned to Camp Allegheny, I did not spend another modicum of a minute applying to grad schools. I talked some shop about it with my professor types, but my short-term goals quickly crystallized at the forefront:
1.) Eat as many $.25 chicken wings as possible during the rest of my time in Meadville, PA
2.) Spend as much time as possible sitting on Jeffrey Maine Miller's couch.
3.) Save as much of my RA stipend as possible on trips to Boston to be with my boyfriend.
4.) Attend as many functions as possible in my pajamas because clearly this would be my last opportunity to do so.
5.) Try to leverage my senioritis with brute strength to keep the ol' GPA where it needed to be should I ever want to attend grad school.
But never did I resolve to spend more of my weekend as laborlessly as possible. I just don't think I could have conceived of it. My weekends then were still rife with senior thesizing and cleaning the macaroni out of my hot pot. I was still attending Sunday church - at that time, probably at the Methodist service on campus - and was congratulating myself for the Sundays that I got up at the bleary-eyed hour of 10:45am to attend. So that I could pray myself out of a hangover.
The rest of my year was delightful, with a minor strain from being in a long-distance relationship. But God provided for all of my needs, and when I moved to Boston the following fall, I was glad to start life without the Sunday Evening Homework Panic. It would strike me sometimes, like your alarm going off on a Saturday morning to wake you for school that isn't in session, DID I DO MY HOMEWORK WHAT HAVE I BEEN PISSING AWAY THE WEEKEND DOING DO I EVEN KNOW WHAT MY ASSIGNMENT IS WAIT WHERE DO I GO TO SCHOOL OHMYGOODNESS I DON'T ANY MORE!!!!! The assurance of not having to cram study on a Sunday night for a Monday morning exam couldn't have been any sweeter.
This is how I came to love Sundays. This is how Sunday came to be my favorite day of the week.
Immediately after moving to Boston, I started to attend church with my boyfriend. (See also: Conversion story, Sabbath-keeping, Breaking your Catholic family's heart). Saturdays were spent in church clothes doing churchish things with churchies. Saturdays were for God. Sundays, however, were all mine. And they became so delicious to me.
Sundays, these days, are still delicious. Even though I divide my time between schoolwork (for myself), calligraphy (for others), and cleaning the bathroom (for marital preservation), they are still mine. I take long walks in my ghetto, which, when the whir of cars with their sub woofers go by, really does sound like the beach. I write my grannies letters. I watch cooking shows and all of those marathon shows on VH-1 that do nothing to enlighten you, only make you feel bad that you don't have every episode of "Silver Spoons" memorized. I watch these while I'm doing abs and thinking about the good dinner I'm going to make since I can afford a.) cable and b.) groceries which I might not otherwise enjoy if all of my money was being snatched up by that witch Sallie Mae, adversary of grad students everywhere. I read my favorite blogstresses and my favorite column in the Boston Globe Sunday Magazine. I even check the New York Times which I never get to do during the week. Sunday is also very helpful for searching for the car keys that you lost between the sheets, and other activities which merit euphemisms.
To all those who are pursuing graduate studies or occupations that otherwise demand your Sunday of Leisure from you, my sympathies. It is my hope that every man and woman may someday enjoy God's day of rest in Heaven. As a Saturday sabbath-keeper, I can attest to the quality of life change that that this has meant for me. But it is also my hope that every man and woman can know the delights of a Sunday of Leisure. It is right up there with a face covered in cupcake frosting or a bottom of the 9th comeback - two things which are not mutually exclusive of, and may indeed be an essential part, of a perfect Sunday of Leisure.
