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You know that "60 Minutes" stopwatch that punctuates the Sunday night news magazine?
Chick-a, chick-a, chick-a, chick-a
Well, it makes me nervous, a Pavlovian response no doubt.
The stopwatch signals to me that the weekend is ending and the workweek is beginning.
It's the natural order of things. Friday night is for unwinding. Saturday is for escaping. And Sunday night is for sliding back into the high-pressure routine of everyday life.
For me, Sunday night anxiety traces back to childhood, and "60 Minutes" is the trigger.
I can close my eyes and remember the voices of Mike Wallace, Morley Safer and that old curmudgeon Andy Rooney on our 25-inch Magnavox console television. I recall the late Mr. Rooney making folksy, old-man observations, like: "I try to look nice. I comb my hair, I tie my tie, I put on a jacket, but I draw the line when it comes to trimming my eyebrows."
As a card-carrying old man, I totally disagree. My hairstylist, Debbie, clips my eyebrows without being asked anymore. She says she has even been spreading my eyebrow-trimming gospel to other middle-age men, who normally let their eyebrows spread like overgrown privet.
But I digress.
For a person prone to worrying, Sunday night is the worst night of the week. It's the herald of hardship, the harbinger of humdrum.
Every Sunday night, at about dusk, I make a mental checklist of all the deadlines I have looming in the coming days. I'll also check my iPhone calendar for doctor's appointments and soccer games.
At some point, my wife and I usually sit down on Sunday night and map out a transportation plan for the week - who will pick up whom, where and on what days. (Flight controllers at Atlanta's Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport have easier jobs.) We determine if we need to call in backup drivers. Sometime there are too many moving parts to plan more ahead than 48 hours.
Meanwhile, I always check in with our two boys, ages 10 and 15, who have plenty of their own Sunday night angst to share if my supply runs low.
Last Sunday night, our 10-year-old son had trouble falling asleep, a frequent problem on a school night following an extended holiday. He was winding down from a week at the beach and anticipating his 7 a.m. computer coding class the next morning.
Meanwhile, our 15-year-old son tried to calm his brother, but he too was unusually quiet, a signal that he was dealing with his own Sunday worries. He often works off tension by cleaning his sneakers.
Meanwhile, I usually sleep fretfully on Sunday as my body subconsciously braces itself for that symphony of alarms that will sound in our bedroom starting at 5:45 a.m.
I hop out of bed and immediately begin to lose myself in the routine of making microwave pancakes and walking the dog.
Finally, the fever of worry breaks while I'm driving to work on Monday morning. Just getting the week into gear seems to lift the dread.
The lesson: When in doubt, get moving.
Contact Mark Kennedy at mkennedy@timesfreepress.com or 423-757-6645.