Sundays Aren’t What They Used to Be: A Peek into Adulting

Ah, Sundays—the ultimate cheat day back in the day. It was all about binge-watching Power Rangers on Jetix, fighting with my sister over chicken bone pieces on my plate, playing outside until I couldn’t feel my legs, and in the evening reluctantly thinking about that unfinished homework due on Monday.

But Sundays now? A completely different ball game. No more carefree lounging. Instead, I’ve found myself in a different kind of routine—one that’s less about fun and more about maintenance, both for myself and my little world.

Today was a typical adult Sunday. I kicked off the day by washing my bike, Eva. Yeah, she’s got a name. Then, I cleaned my office space, making my work-from-home setup look almost like a tech startup—minus the coffee machine and bean bags. I tossed my gym clothes into the wash and scrubbed my shoes until they looked brand new. I even cleaned the doors. At one point, I caught myself doing a double-take at the door frame, thinking, “Damn, that’s a clean door.” Who am I?

It’s funny how Sundays have evolved. As a kid, the idea of cleaning anything other than my toy box felt like torture. But I’d watch my dad; Sundays were his playground for maintenance. He’d clean everything—TV screens, the fridge, ceiling fans, even the bathroom—all to make sure we lived in a spotless, well-oiled home. I never thought much of it back then; I just assumed that’s what dads did.

Fast forward to today, and I’m the one wiping down surfaces, taking care of things I barely noticed as a kid. It hit me—maybe this is what growing up feels like. Not just paying bills or going to work, but maintaining the little things that make up your space, your home. And weirdly enough, it brings a sense of satisfaction.

There’s something oddly fulfilling about all this. Washing my bike isn’t just a chore—it’s therapy. As I scrubbed away, I could hear my mom on the phone with my wife, teasing, “He never washed his dad’s bike, but now look at him!” It stung, but not in a bad way. Maybe this is just what happens when you’re no longer the kid in the house—you become the one who makes sure everything runs right.

My wife watched me with a hint of jealousy as I gave Eva all my attention. She smirked and asked, “So, who’s more important, me or the bike?” I quickly assured her it’s her, but in my head, I whispered, “Eva, don’t worry. I’ve got love for you too.”

These small maintenance tasks are more than just chores—they’re little moments of peace and pride. They remind us that growing up isn’t just about getting older; it’s about taking ownership of your space and finding joy in the mundane. And honestly? I wouldn’t trade it for the world. So, here’s to adulting, to Eva, and to every clean door that brings a little more happiness to our Sundays.