I've always had a thing against Sunday nights. Sunday nights mean that the weekend is over. They're not really a weekend, not truly a weeknight. And since WG came into my life and since he stayed with me then moved on to his new place, I've also come to dislike Sunday afternoons, too, since I never know exactly when he'll be heading back to his own place. When he leaves on a Sunday depends on what we've done during the day (or, for example, who has been over for a visit), what he's got to do to prepare for his week, or a dozen other factors I can't name.
For the first couple of Sunday nights, I just kind of wandered aimlessly, getting used to him not being around, vaguely realizing that I need to prepare myself for my own work week.
This weekend, this Sunday, I reclaimed my evening. When I wasn't in grad school, and even as far back as being back in Berkeley on a Sunday night, I treated myself a bit to prepare myself for a new week, and to take the edge off of Sunday evening. And this week, I came back to that.
After WG headed home to revamp his computer, I headed to my parents' house to pick up my cat (the cat "grandparents" watched him for the weekend for two reasons...so WG and I could have a cat whining-free evening on Friday, our sixth "mensiversary" -- look it up, it's a real word-- and so that one of our game night participants on Saturday would be able to breathe in a cat-free apartment), socialized a bit with my me-deprived parents, and then headed home with a very loud cat, took a bubble bath and settled in for some Alias...
And you know, after a fairly emotional weekend, I am grateful for an evening to myself...but more on that later.
For now, I've reclaimed Sunday night, and I think that's fairly darn awesome.