Sunday evening stress is not a lie -

I heard it on the CBC. "As It Happens" is the last bastion of truth in this society gone amok if you ask me. Unfortunately, I can only indulge in daytime radio when I call in sick with a hangover or PMS.

Back to work anxiety afflicts millions of people who have nothing better to do on a Sunday night than panic over what pitfalls await them on Monday morning. What a shame. The weekend is only two days long and we waste a quarter of it worrying about when it will end.

Using my sweet telephone voice to say "Ishabrook Insurance, how can I help you" every three minutes doesn't give me loose bowels. I couldn't give a rats ass about customer satisfaction or my bosses opinion of my work ethic. But at seven pm on Sunday, chores done, house presentable, hangover sufficiently nursed, with nothing to do but listen to the tick tock of the wall clock and consider my future, the thought of getting out of bed again tomorrow is enough to drive anyone to the 7-11 for a Slurpee.

The sugar keeps me occupied, not to mention the trip itself and invariably I run into some other poor sloth on a Mars bar mission. What to wear, pending presentations, interpersonal conflicts: choose your Sunday night poison. So says the CBC.

But that is not what afflicts me. The hours pass at work and I get paid the same. I have mastered minimalism in the work place. What creeps into my stomach and weighs down my bones is knowing that another two days of freedom have passed; 48 hours to create my most fabulous self, wear feather boas and flit from gallery opening to underground club; and I have spent most of it reading magazines that I stole from the laundry mat.

But I tell myself, Monday is a new day.