Witness Post: Sunday sunday
She felt shame. Sunday’s do that. She felt a stiffness in her neck and her head throbbed. How many drinks had she belted down last night? Who was the guy she awoke beside? It was all a blur and her hangover was getting worse.
She could not remember anything past the conversation with her girlfriend in the house party bathroom. Her boyfriend was super tired and went home early. She had wanted to stay and party. It had been a long week and she felt she deserved some fun. She started with a kamikaze. After the third drink? Or was it the fifth? Gone.
She threw on her skimpy black dress, tiptoed out the apartment door, sweater in hand. She couldn’t face him. Calling an Uber, she made her way back to her own apartment. Was it Sunday? Yes, that’s what her phone said anyway … Sunday.
As the driver made her way through the wet streets, the passenger felt the emptiness of her actions, but still couldn’t go there. Her head hurt too much. Instead, the memories of Sundays from those middle school years seeped back into her consciousness. Her mind drifted to the previous decade.
Splashing water on her face to awaken, dressing quickly in her Sunday best, brushing her hair, she hurried to get ready. She remembers putting on that special make-up in case Robbie, that cute guy, who sat behind her in 7th grade math class, were in church.
Rushing out the door so as not to miss the ride with dad, she felt hassled. We are “late for church,” he called in that irritatingly loud voice. Dad was always in a hurry to make it to church. He didn’t want to miss the processional hymn, for some reason that escaped me. Dad was such a pain in the ass about punctuality. Mom, who was even more Catholic than dad, was nearly as late as I was. Somehow we made it from home to the parking lot and into the church in time for the processional.
As I think about it now, sitting there in the pews with family was special. The church and the congregation were our friends, our neighbors, our people. We had prayed with them and for them, and we had heard the same bad homilies as we sat alongside them for years. Yet the place and the people held us. It had a certain stillness, quiet and peace. And the music. The music was the best part. It was so contemplative and soothing.
As the Uber driver approached the girl’s apartment, she re-focused on the present. The raindrops are rolling down the window. Lots of questions arise between the head pounding. What time is it? What do I really want? What am I looking for in a guy? Should he be like dad? Now that Dad is gone and I still feel those many irritations, probably not. A guy like my boyfriend? Maybe. A guy like that hunk in the bed? No. Never.
What was I thinking? Not much, apparently … I have a lot to sort out to get the guy thing right.
Gratitude is having a day of rest at the end of a long week. Sundays allows me to take stock of what is going on and what lies ahead. What do I remember about last night, exactly? Should I check for STD’s? Should I tell my boyfriend about this? Lots to ponder this rainy Sunday afternoon.
Maybe next weekend I could look for a church. I could sit in the back and listen to the music. Sundays can be good for something, again, besides mental and physical recovery from Saturday’s choices.
Henry E. Hooper 