It’s that time of the week again. I call it the Sunday evening dread. As another Monday looms, I instinctively look back at the weekend slipping out of hand. There’s this feeling of the day, the weekend just not been enough. I start questioning myself about what I did or, more often, what I didn’t. I wonder where the heck all the time went. And if I’m in a complicated state of mind, the previous question is enlarged to contain my whole life. Yeah, all the nearly forty-three years of it.

Not a nice place to be in, not on a Sunday, not any day.

The fact is, I had a perfectly normal day by Sunday standards. I woke up late, had okayish food, finished a thriller on Netflix, didn’t take a bath, scrolled through Instagram, played with my toddler, and ‘conversed’ with my wife (opposite of what women blame us men for not talking profoundly and meaningfully about life with them). Still, there’s this nagging thought that maybe I didn’t do enough. That I didn’t justify this day of rest by resting really well or, conversely, by making more productive use of my time. 

Maybe the key here is the word ‘productive.’ Maybe the uneasiness is because of not having a tangible output for all the time I put in as input. Maybe this little bit of writing will help assuage that concern, at least.

What do you think, dear whosoever is reading this? Do you also feel the same at times? If not particularly on a Sunday evening, maybe towards the end of a vacation or approaching your birthday? Is this what a mid-life crisis looks like in its weekly instalment?