When I was a very young professional, I lived in a sort of boarding house for women. The ladies who lived there were always polite to one and other, even when one or the other might be annoyed because the group elected to watch the TV program “Route 66” when the minority wanted to watch another program. The only time that I recall one group not speaking to another was during the Kennedy/Nixon election. By and large, we all worked for the same concern, which sometimes meant that we took work home. We often ate together or played cards in the evening. Most of the time, however, we kept to ourselves. I was general happy there, except on Sunday evenings.


Nearly everyone went out over the weekend, but all returned home on Sunday evenings. That time of the week became a sort of twilight zone.


I never asked how anyone else felt at that time, but for me it was a time of great restlessness. That restlessness would turn to boredom. It is embarrassing for me to admit that, as a young women, I was bored.


Sixty years later, it is still difficult for me to admit that as a widow, over the weekend, I occasionally feel bored.


Today, for example, after a packed week of volunteer work, studying for a class that I am auditing, church attendance, working on a writing project, going to a wonderful concert and having dinner with friends, I am restless – the precursor to boredom.


To ward off that depressing state, I just returned from a long walk and am preparing to go to church. Hopefully, the praying, singing and companionship will lift my spirits.


Going to church did the trick. I came home, threw together some supper and watched two movies content with myself doing the ordinary. Amen.

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