November 2, 2010

What is it about Sundays that makes me feel like I need to get my life back together…pronto. Wait, I think I know. Maybe it’s because I hang out until 4am on Friday and Saturday nights and wake up Sundays feeling like I duked it out with Iron Mike for 12 rounds. Could be it.

Listen, I brush my teeth twice a day and all that, but flossing seems to be one of the little rituals I engage in to go that extra mile (read: inch) towards being a respectable human being. Just so happens I do it most often on Sundays. That and I do my laundry. And eat a salad for dinner. And maybe even pay my credit card bill. After all that I’m feeling pretty good. So good that I almost forget that I thought it was sweet idea to crush falafel at 3:26 in the morning then walk all the way back to the West Village from Alphabet City because I thought it would be good exercise, not to mention an extra $5.30 in my pocket from saved cab fare. (On a related note, the number of times I’ve woken up on a Sunday with a single $1 dollar bill in my pocket blows my mind).

At least Johnny Cash feels my pain. This is one of my all time favorites from the Man in Black:

“Sunday Morning Coming Down”