I have mixed feelings about Sundays.

Sunday is supposed to be the day of rest. A peaceful little oasis between Saturday and Monday. Brunch. Coffee. Maybe a leisurely walk. Perhaps a bath. No urgency.

And yet Sunday has somehow developed a sinister undercurrent.

There is Sunday morning, when you are still enjoying the weekend.

Then there is Sunday afternoon, when you suddenly realize tomorrow is Monday.

And finally, there is Sunday evening, when your brain begins producing a completely unsolicited list of everything you haven’t done, everything you should do, and everything that could possibly go wrong this week.

Apparently, my brain believes Sunday evening is an appropriate time for an executive meeting.

I didn’t schedule it.

There are no snacks.

And somehow everyone is still invited.

I’ve always thought Sundays have a strange psychological personality. They aren’t quite a beginning and they aren’t quite an ending. They’re the awkward middle child of the week, sitting there quietly reminding you that time is passing.

But maybe the trick is to stop demanding that Sunday accomplish anything.

Drink the coffee.

Watch something ridiculous.

Eat the thing.

Take the nap.

Ignore the laundry.

Let Monday arrive without having spent Sunday preparing emotionally for its invasion.

After all, Monday is coming whether we worry about it on Sunday or not.

Might as well enjoy the day before it gets here.

And if my brain insists on holding that Sunday evening executive meeting?

I’m putting it on mute.