I remember when Sunday was not just another day, as it tends to be in retirement. In fact, I rarely even recognize it now except as the day the trash needs to go out. For my working wife, it is still a special weekend day of not having to go to the office. She likes to start her “Funday” by giving our two pups a long walk, something she believes I am remiss on doing during the week. Since I run every morning, it’s become a ritual of compromise that we now refer to as a “Schnauzerthon.” Our 100-year old, gimpy schnauzer Tinker can’t handle the distance any more, so we bought her an Air Buggy that allows continued participation in the fun. We take turns pushing her along through the park with schnauzer-sister Tally on a leash. When Tinker is in my control, we surge ahead at my faster running pace, she gets the youthful sensation of a puppy chasing the ducks at full speed, her ears pinned back by the wind – as if I could possibly run that fast any more.

When I was a kid, I went to Sunday school, another miserable day in the classroom. Soon my stubborn resistance made life unbearable on everyone at home until they just let me sleep-in, my favorite activity as a child. Even at this age, Sundays were still an ominous signal that a week of work was soon about to begin, and I was already looking forward to retirement. Once in the job force, Sundays were all about getting ready for that Monday morning alarm, hoping to ease the pain of the worst day of the week. As far as I was concerned, the weekend was over when I finally got out of bed on Sunday. Church was still not on my agenda, only disrupting a rare opportunity to sleep-in late. Please forgive my laziness!

The only two good things about Sunday that I remember were Chicago Bears games and Murder She Wrote. There was no Sunday Night Football back then so no conflicts between these two great television events. Without fail, every Sunday night at 8 p.m. I set up the ironing board in front of the TV and pressed my suits and shirts for the week, eliminating one of the hassles of getting ready every morning. By the time Jessica Fletcher solved the murder and my clothes were laid out, I began to feel the depression of another weekend gone by! It always seemed like the time passed so quickly, despite all my efforts to savor the precious hours. Suddenly, I was back in the office and Saturday was five seemingly endless days away!

Casual Fridays were also non-existent back then, so it meant a stuffy suit every day and five to iron every Sunday. The thought of also ironing a sixth suit for church was just another excuse not to go. Later in life, I bought a steamer to take the wrinkles out of my suits, and even though church services became more casual, I still didn’t go. Football is now on nearly every day and so are re-runs of Murder She Wrote, so neither says Sunday anymore. It’s now all about trash, “Schnauzerthons,” afternoons with my wife, no suits to press, and trips into wine country.