I’m listening to a podcast about poultry, having a second cup of coffee and getting ready to go to work. Pretend as I might in the morning, I don’t have Sundays off. 

A lot of us don’t. We work at restaurants, take freelance jobs, man theaters and run shops. Clanking from boiler repairs downstairs reminds me that plumbers and electricians are just as busy on Sundays as they are any other day of the week. It’s Monday for the ship crew at the end of my block, setting sail for someplace warmer. This past week I realized that farmers don’t get Sundays either. Holidays? Not really. Animals don’t care that you’re tired or hungover or that it’s Christmas. 

I try to relish my days off, which tend to be midweek, but no day feels as simple or slow as a Sunday. I daydream about spending this sleepy day reading by a fire or wandering a trail with Frankie. Someday soon, I hope. 

Hats (name tags, aprons, boots) off to all of you plugging away today.