Sundays are sacred. I ritually put on my green t-shirt and yoga pants, the ones reserved for days of no obligation. In a parallel universe, I might even do yoga in that outfit. To wear my greens and blues on a work day is sacrilege.
Going to McDonalds on a Sunday morning makes me wish every day was a Sunday- no one is annoyed at a toddler’s screams. In fact, on Sunday, people even find this endearing. Everyone is smiley, cutting into their tri-layered hotcakes, pushing bits of egg and sausage and muffin into their mouths. People say Please and Excuse me and if you accidentally step on their feet while making your way to an empty table they say Oh that’s quite alright. How gracious everyone is on a Sunday morning.
Kids are happier because parents oblige them an ice-cream cone after a Happy Meal. Grandparents are happier because they get to share breakfast, three generations under one roof. Not their own roofs, but oh well. McDonalds will do.
On Sunday mornings, people forget that work begins again tomorrow (and never seems to end). They forget that the kids’ homework needs to be checked, the bags need to be packed, water bottles re-filled. For a moment they forget that it is only the 10th, and they only have $200 left for the rest of the month. At the back of their minds, they think, Tomorrow the creditors will call again, but today let me enjoy my Big Breakfast. (Today I eat like a King, tomorrow I am but a pauper!)
Sunday mornings at McDonalds is no place for the dine-solos. As a matter of fact, I was the only one dining alone, my Sausage McGriddles with Egg for company.
He wasn’t good company I must add- he left me feeling nauseous. Or maybe it is me realising I have $300 left for the rest of the month.
(This is a writing exercise- I am preparing for the 24 hr Playwriting Competition by making it a habit to write something, anything, everyday.)