Sunday, Damn Sunday

I know what you are thinking: BLASPHEMY! No? Damn. Sundays seem to wear me down and grind my bones. I know it is because in the back of my mind I am worrying about work. Even when I am off I still worry about it; about what inventory problem will arise or what incredibly frustrating thing a coworker will do. I worry about messing up on payroll, I worry about making sure I have ordered the right amount of product all at a wage far below what other companies would be paying someone to do the same work. It isn’t about the money; I could be making twice or three times the money and I would still hate it. In reality how many people are actually doing something they love as a job? My wife asks me often if there was a time I can remember being happy. The most satisfied I have been is staying home with the kids and watching them grow up. I always felt as if I was accomplishing something worth while. I taught guitar two evenings a week and I was doing a lot of volunteer work for Manitoba Mutts Dog Rescue. I felt like my life had a purpose. I wasn’t working all the time which left me calmer and in a state of almost normalcy. So why did I leave that behind? Money for one thing (Dawn was working retail at the time) and the pressure to be the “man” and go out and provide for my family. I realize that I should know better than to fall for that stereotype, but it’s hard to get away from. I don’t know what to do with this now, though. Where do I go from here? Sometimes I just want to submerge my head and let it all just disappear. Sometimes I just can’t make the hard choices. Sometimes I’d rather be miserable than risk having someone think poorly of me. In the end, what will it matter?

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4 thoughts on “Sunday, Damn Sunday

  1. There are many downsides to being a woman, but I am still glad not to have been born male in today’s Western culture. Apart from the idiocy of testosterone (sorry, but, you know – all those drives) I’m glad not to have that set of expectations placed on me. For example, even though it’s going to stretch us financially, my partner and I have decided that I can work a very small minimum number of hours this year, so I can focus on my mental health and getting it sorted out. I’m sure it would have been much harder for him to ask for, and be granted, that same gift of time, that same guilt of contributing less to the household.
    Poor men!

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