Sunday Bloody Sunday

I used to sing these words out loud, alone in my bedroom. Walkman in hand, earphones carefully positioned, probably holding whatever would remotely look like a microphone (hair brush? pen case? a super cute retractable dotted umbrella? you name it. I had it)

I liked U2 alright. Séverine, my best friend at the time, had the biggest crush on Bono (she fancied really weird-looking guys. Gary Oldman was definitely her worst pick. She loved him in Dracula, which makes the whole thing even creepier....right? She ended up marrying a selfish prick, and never spoke to me again) and since we were spending together quite a lot of time hanging out aimlessly, teenager-way - I had to listen to Achtung Baby, The Joshua Tree, Rattle and Hum. And War.

Sunday Bloody Sunday particularly spoke to me. The real meaning of the song escaped me for a long time because instead of listening to the actual lyrics (which I would have had to read previously, my understanding of sung English being pretty limited at the time) I was focusing on the title. For me the cool Irish dudes were just like me: they hated Sundays with their guts. So much so that they had written a song about it!!!!!!
I was feeling in total harmony with them. Soul mates?
Of course later when I learned that the song was in fact referring to the Derry events of 1972 I felt pretty stupid. But that is another story.

Since we are in the magical realm of music there is indeed a French song that I should have adopted as a personal hymn: "Je hais les dimanches" (I hate Sundays) by Juliette Greco. But I didn't really know about it since, you know, she is WAY less exciting and sensational than contemporary rock'n roll.
Still - she was unto something.

Sundays for me have always been the worst day of the week, and not only because Mondays come immediately after. Since I was 6, every other week, I had to go to my dad's for the weekend and that was torture enough. I don't want to talk about him here but without going into much detail let's just say that the aforementioned mention of 'selfish prick' is wonderfully appropriate to qualify the character.
Then - there is the whole desperation of French Sundays.

If you never have been subjected to it the phenomenon is really difficult to describe. Being in Paris one Sunday doesn't count; not only is ONE SINGLE Sunday not even close enough to qualify as an experience in French misery but Paris is, like everything else, an exception. To understand the full concept one has to get himself lost in one of the innumerable smaller cities that constitute most of the country, and patiently stay there all day long. It's only after the last bakery closes around 1pm that things get really bad.
All of a sudden you are transported in the middle of nowhere. No man's land. Emptiness. Desert. If we could have them tumbleweeds would invade the streets.
Seriously.
Everything is still closed on Sundays. Stores are required by law to shut their doors except for the glorious 3 or 4 in December when it is allowed for them to make business with Santa. The fact that it does not make ANY sense in a country where Church and State have been separated since 1905 doesn't seem obvious to our law makers. Or maybe they choose to keep it for the sake of old tradition and blablablah but still I keep wondering when everybody is going to come to their senses and stop this non-sense (pun intended).

So you would think that having lived in the 24/7 USA for eight years now I have come to terms with my Sunday hatred.
Well....not even close.

I was thinking about it no longer than two days ago - a Sunday. Now that I can go to the pharmacy, the mall, the gun shop any time of the week - even Sunday at 3am/pm if I wish - I should be totally fine, right? Sorry to say - I am not. But I cannot really figure out why. Is it only the sheer force of habit? In that case it would be really sad and incredibly depressing to think of me as an old owl so set in her routine she is unable to evolve, even at 25.
I don't know what's about it. But there IS something. Like a sort of pressure. The implicit rule that people have to have fun on Sundays, even more so in English than in French where one is definitely not allowed not to make the most of one glorious Day of Sun.
I don't like being told what to do. Like these first few days of Spring where nature offers an indecent display of its wonders and people are elated and won't shut up about it. I usually beg to differ. Season changes affect me deeply, in a bad way. I can't help it. But most of the time I cannot even voice my opinion without being labeled as an unwelcome killjoy who is unable to enjoy life's beauty.
Which is entirely unfair and totally false.
I need time.

So despite the splendor of brunch and bottomless mimosas I will probably never hold Sundays close to my heart. I came to terms with this last Sunday when I decided that I wanted to celebrate the end of the day with a mighty good meal, French style. You know - just to close the Sunday loop.
Having dinner at Cafe Matou with my two favorites biches was a wonderful way to deal with my Sunday blues. All the flavors of my childhood were on the plate, wine was being poured in glasses, tastebuds were satisfied. I had the best meal I have had in a long time, and part of the perfection pertained to the time of the week.
Magic happens; it was Sunday night, and I was happy.