The Sunday Night Freak Out

Weekends allow us to relax. For the husband, that means golf and cards. For me, I might go to the pool or curl up with a book.

Like all good things, the weekend ends. Then the brain neurons kick in and it's Sunday night. You're evaluating the week. You're facing reality again. You're making to-do lists. You're pacing.

Even retired people struggle with this. It's ingrained over decades and now there is nothing to be freaking about. It doesn't matter. The habit is there.

I have a Sunday night ritual. It involves a swim in my tub, a glass of wine and music. I have nothing to fear on Monday morning but I still do it.

99 Bottles of Beer (and Wine) on the Wall

For the record, I've never taken a narcotic in my life. I've also never met a bottle of wine that didn't sound like a great idea at the time. You could serve me box o' wine and I would use Hangdog's expression: It's EXCELLENT!

The brother-in-law and his wife have left. We've accomplished some things and we're all very clear on the road ahead: bumpy and scary and sad. (And busy.)

Like the ostrich that I am, I tend to hide my head in the sand. We're all tense and scared.

We have gone through a lot of bottles of wine and beer. It's not the healthiest way to deal with the situations at hand but we did. Instead of the rational reaction to that, my first thought was, "We must restock."