Walkers Killed Sunday

Sundays are strange. Not like, “OH! She has purple hair and a sleeve tattoo. That’s strangely intriguing.” Strange like, “Hi, 9-1-1 dispatcher, my great-grandmother has dementia and she’s running around nude. Yeah, we can’t catch her and she needs to put clothes on because she’s scaring the kiddies. Op, um, her left boob just put a hole in my wall. We need help.” In a word: dreadful.

I used to enjoy Sundays. It’s the last day of the weekend. The day that I just want to lie in bed with my family all day and soak them all up.

{Until Bella decides she’s had enough snuggles and it’s time to put on her Elsa dress (which she can’t find so now it’s my job to find it) and Roman decides it’s time to practice Karate on the dogs. Or my nose. And/or our new lab pees in the floor and our chihuahua has a seizure and poops in a shoe. Aaaand I’m awake!}

A nice morning at church followed by a lovely, leisurely brunch, then maybe the park… Ahhhhh.

PLUS, I knew that even though I’d end my Sunday with 1,000 loads of laundry (because procrastination is the one thing I EXCEL at), I would get to watch The Walking Dead!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I love that show. I could binge watch for days.

{You know those stories you hear every once in a while about the addicted gamers who forget to eat and their friends find them dead with the video controller in their hand??? Yeah, that was me when I discovered The Walking Dead on Netflix.}

Sometimes I forget it’s not real. In my mind I’m the machete wielding Bad Ass. When someone cuts me off in traffic I think to myself, “DID THAT REALLY JUST HAPPEN???? He honestly has no idea what I’m capable of! Didn’t he see me take down, like, a thousand zombies last night?! Guess he doesn’t want to live…”

When I go to the movie theater I check out the exits so that I’m prepared in the event we are invaded, not in the event of a fire.

{A crazy madman with a gun? NO! Let’s be realistic. Zombies.}

Wanna go for a hike?

ARE YOU INSANE??? THERE ARE ZOMBIES IN THE WOODS!!!!!!!

Honestly, that’s popped into my mind. Luckily, I catch myself before it comes out of my mouth. Don’t want people thinking I’m cray-cray.

But now The Walking Dead is on hiatus. Sundays are different. Instead of being the last fun day before dreadful Monday, they are the dreadful day before mundane Monday. Like the day before traffic court. Or the day before your step-aunt’s boyfriend’s funeral.

{Did you really know him? NOPE. Don’t even remember his name. Aunt Edna called him “Poo Bear”. Pretty sure that isn’t what’ll be on his tombstone.

If you don’t go, you’ll hear about it for the rest of your life. Might as well suck it up (that’s what she said) and make an appearance.}

That’s what I expected, at least.

Turns out, the first Sunday without my show this season was AWESOME. My hubs and I took our little bunnies ice skating (in 70 degree weather in GA it was more like swimming), we ate frozen yogurt, did a little shopping and at the end of the day, when all the babies were in bed (an hour after the bedtime ritual began), my hubs and I actually TALKED. WHAT???

It was incredibly lovely. Don’t get me wrong; I still miss The Walking Dead. But I don’t dread Sundays anymore. I do, however, still hate Mondays.

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