The first short story I ever published contained a line stolen straight out of my life:
“Neither of us were very good at Sundays.”
Nevermind that the story was a melodramatic piece of tripe; the phrase itself is maybe the truest thing I’ve ever written. Except that by “neither of us,” I really meant “I.”

I have always loathed Sundays. As a kid they meant waking up at 7:00 to attend Mass and Sunday school and then returning home to a mother grumpy with the duties of motherhood and a whole lot of bad T.V. As an adult, I hate them for their shapelessness.

Let’s be honest: Sundays are a day for hangovers and sleeping in, and absolutely useless for getting anything done. I’ve given up on attempting productivity on Sundays; no matter how much I need to do, the effort is futile. I’m proud of myself if I make it out of the house–hell, out of my pajamas–before 2pm. That is, until now.

Friends, I am bribing myself to enjoy Sundays.

Last week I started what I pledge will become a weekly tradition of taking myself out on solo dates every Sunday. It began with my first (well, okay, not first, but media screeners don’t count!) unaccompanied cinema experience last week, when I splurged on a new release (True Grit) and spent way too much on concessions. It gave my day a real sense of accomplishment. and so this week I decided to hit the thee-ay-tar by my lonesome. The plays were pretty darn fabulous, and seeing them alone made it easier to get sucked in.

It takes a lot of strength to do things alone, to choose to spend time in the company of no one, which is maybe why that one video got so much play a few months back. Because there’s something really challenging and empowering and holy and stuff about solitude, and it’s something I’m only just now learning to enjoy.