Welcome back to MR’s Sunday Scaries Diaries, where haunted humans chronicle their end-of-the-weekend terrors (plus the events that led up to them) to help make all of us feel a little less alone in the fetal position come Monday morning.
BREAKING NEWS: One can SKIP THE ALCOHOL and still feel all of the attendant regret, self-pity and Seventh-day terror of a Sunday hangover. I am living proof and this is my tale.
9:13: I wake up. My man is already awake and I can only assume that’s how I’m awake too, though he has fled the scene of the crime.
As with every Sunday for the last six years, I have had no alcohol the night prior and yet I am exhausted (we were still out extremely late), disoriented and full of contempt that I have found myself, somehow unfathomably if expectedly, awaking to YET ANOTHER SUNDAY. Common knowledge tells me that there is an equal number of each day in every week, but personal experience leads me to believe that there are at least three more Sundays and four more Mondays per week than Fridays and Saturdays.
Fun fact: Rumor has it that this is Tyra Banks’ old apartment. I choose to believe this and take comfort in the wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling mirrors she had installed on the back of every single door and in the generous closets she lovingly cultivated in what can be a harsh city for storage space. Her spirit is clearly still with us and I greet it almost every morning.
9:15: I reflect on the fact that I still have at least thirteen WHOLE HOURS to do what I meant to get done this weekend — namely, respond to every last one of the 289 emails I promised myself would never meet the coming Monday; figure out (and somehow magically acquire) every outfit I will wear for the next month’s worth of Fashion Weeks; determine who I am and how I will positively make a mark on the world (i.e. legacy); affect the current administration; make art that matters; and save some money. All this seems relatively doable, considering those thirteen hours I mentioned. Surely I’ll be a firestorm of productive energy today, a goddamn sorceress with what I am able to do. And the best possible first step, I can be sure, is to check my Instagram.
10:00: I dress in a full Ivy Park athleisure look, including puffer.
10:21: Breakfast. Almond lattes and eggs al tegamino.
11:20: Leave the apartment to meet my friend Allie for a Bari Bounce class. God bless the woman who dared to dream that dance aerobics could be acted out on a personal trampoline. I bounce within a constricted radius for the next hour.
1:00: After a shower, I get to work trying on clothes. Fashion week starts on Thursday and will go every single day (minus three) until March 8th. In anticipation, I have bought, borrowed and wrested out of oblivion as much armor as I could carry against the greatest barrage on one’s energy and one’s perception of own appearance known to Fashion-man. The pile of garment bags and shopping bags before me represents so much promise. A whole world of possibilities opens before me like the yoke of a Balenciaga trench. “This time will be different!,” I think to myself. “This time, I’ll feel I’ve kept up with the trends and worn something original. Hell, I’ll probably even wake up with perfect hair each day if I just focus enough mental energy on it.” All of this seems very likely.
1:17: Out of nowhere, some very rude pants don’t fit. It’s a shame, as I had really believed in those pants. I feel betrayed by the ungrateful pants.
1:35: A shirt won’t zip up without an accomplice and dramatic compression of my lungs and ribs. I find myself wondering how long I could go without breathing fully — two shows? Three shows? If I want to wear this shirt, I’ll have to find a survivable block in my schedule with changing opportunities before and after. Or remove a rib. Both seem a little extreme. I edit.
2:13: Like a Hemingway character describing how he went broke — gradually at first and then all of a sudden — I run out of patience for clothes. I am immediately overwhelmed by the pile of garments and mess I have needlessly pulled out for myself to turn right around and have to clean up. All of my bravado for fashion is knocked out of me and I am left standing before a sea of enemies.
3:07: I have the sudden feeling that if I don’t watch Spice World RIGHT NOW, there WILL be a firefight.
3:16: I hear from my mother. She sends me the following text: “Hi Selb. I’m riding in a truck to pick up the trees and plants I bought in Dix Hills off the LIE for the church garden. The driver now is singing off-key because we have gotten far enough away from Manhattan that the AM reception is spotty. The right rearview mirror is attached to its frame with moving tape. And just now the rain is starting so we can look forward to lugging all those plants and trees from the outdoor holding station to the truck. Good thing I wore my clogs with the elevated black rubber heels. There is a pile of unpaid parking tickets on the floor by a black banana peel. I hope we don’t get pulled over as the driver would go directly to jail and then what would I do. Sent from my iPhone”
6:30: The Super Bowl begins. I could talk to you about it, but I could also not. So I’ll go with that.
8:06: I begin to panic as I have only three hours before my desired bedtime to accomplish the veritable lifetime of goals I have set out to accomplish on this particular Sunday. I begin the weekly ritual of evaluating which ones I can mentally reassign a new, more later on time frame, apportioning them out over the coming days, weeks and months. (ex. I will “figure out my career” two weekends from now, which looks to be relatively free as of this moment; I will ‘answer all the emails tomorrow, which is at the very least, not today; I will “create a legacy” closer to the summer, which I choose to see as a good opportunity to practice life skills like patience and acceptance.) This leaves me with only the few top priorities to tackle tonight — do all of the outfits; determine my purpose.
8:45: In an effort to dance away the clouds of dread forming overhead, my boyfriend and I play a game in which I shoot him with suction cup “darts” on a crossbow I bought him for Christmas. I found it exceedingly cruel when he suggested I serve as a target. I find it utterly delightful when we reverse roles. He wears a ski mask and his underwear.
9:32: Eat ice cream (obviously).
10:08: In the final moments of the Super Bowl, which has been playing in the background, I become a radical football fan. We turn off the TV when the game is over to get ready for bed.
10:47: I am in a vortex of obligation. My focus hovers like a drone around those goddamned emails, which are just waiting in the wings to take me down. I realize that I haven’t figured out who I am or, perhaps most importantly, what I will wear. My last ditch, Hail-Mary efforts to DO IT ALL — the ice cream and the darts game — have failed to really move the needle, if I’m being honest. I resign myself to making a new and better plan tomorrow.
10:48: Having determined that self-care is as valiant a pursuit as any other I have mentioned, I climb into bed and snuggle into Steven’s shoulder. I am going to sleep like a champ. I deserve it. Hell, tomorrow is Monday. Here’s to hoping it never comes.
Selby is Vogue’s Accessories Director. Follow her on Instagram @selbydrummond
Feature illustration by Emily Zirimis.