Welcome back to MR’s Sunday Scaries Diaries, where haunted humans chronicle their end-of-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. In this round, Will deFries, Austin, Texas-based Senior Writer for Post Grad Problems — who has Instagram and Twitter accounts dedicated to Sunday Scaries — pushes through his hangover.
There has always been something romantic about Sundays to me. Not in a, “Meg Ryan dancing down the street in light-wash denim while listening to The Cranberries in You’ve Got Mail” kind of way. More in the, “I’m going to do anything humanly possible to ensure I’m satisfied” kind of way. But actually, kind of in that Meg Ryan kind of way, too.
I wake up and check my phone. I sit there for twenty minutes while my brain lethargically runs through thoughts ranging from small work tasks that will inevitably require attention to where my coffee will come from to pondering the amount of water (in gallons) in Lake Michigan. I make decisions about none of them.
I roll over. I notice the chair sitting next to my bed has a pile of clothing on it. It’s the perfect metaphor for the state of my brain: messy, but with a little effort and housekeeping, everything can get cleared up.
With the decision of needing to accomplish some work weighing heavily, I schedule 15 tweets. I promptly receive a screenshot of the first tweet sent and, sure enough, I mixed up “who’s” and “whose.” It’s at that moment I realize that coffee isn’t a luxury, but a necessity.
I drive to a cafe five minutes from my house. There’s an ambulance parked in front with the lights flashing. Emotionally speaking, I know walking by the ambulance to get a three-shot Americano just isn’t worth it. I’m too fragile, both mentally and physically.
Upon parking my car at the next coffee shop down the street, “Fuel Level Low” displays on my dashboard. Pumping gas is an arduous task reserved for Mondays. I’ll risk it.
A minute after ordering my coffee, the world begins to crumble. A little boy knocks over his father’s coffee and I answer a call from my girlfriend asking if I can get her a coffee as well. Both of these events stir me because 1. spilled liquids and 2. the only thing worse than waiting in line once is waiting in line twice.
With one of my fuel levels remedied, I receive a text checking in on whether or not a lunch planned earlier in the week is still happening. My brain scolds itself for making any Sunday plans before responding with perhaps the ugliest text message I’ve ever sent: “Let’s go somewhere Instagrammable.” I immediately hate myself. I don’t actually want to force an Instagram, but going somewhere with Instagrammable characteristics just feels like a better idea than not.
Ten minutes early for lunch. Bar seating only. Am told there’s going to be “construction involving jackhammers” occurring in the parking lot beginning soon. Panic until the other two parties arrive.
Regret sets in after I order a drink with gin in it that I’ll never remember the name of. “Who drinks gin cocktails during winter?” I wonder while staring emptily at the oyster menu. When the waiter returns with the drink I hate, I assure him that I like “East Coast oysters” more than “West Coast oysters.” I have no idea what the difference is.
Before dressing the oysters and wondering how much horseradish is too much horseradish, I order a tuna sandwich and applaud myself for becoming the youngest human being to ever order a tuna sandwich at a restaurant.
I order a beer. I don’t even want it but, like, our waiter was so nice.
“I wonder why I feel terrible right now,” I think to myself while looking at a table that contains an empty gin drink, a half-drank beer, oyster shells and a tuna sandwich. It becomes obvious as to why I do, in fact, feel terrible.
I need to go home.
Finally home, I get in bed, cock my head just far enough that messy chair hamper is out of my peripheral vision, and nap-watch 49 minutes of Planet Earth II. Watching Nubian ibex tip-toe and nearly fall off mountainsides raises my blood pressure, but the urge to take a nap proves stronger than the urge to change the channel.
I wake up. “I’ll have to rewind later and figure out where I left off,” I tell myself, well knowing I will never undertake that monumental task.
Sends text: In town this week? Let’s get together.
Receives: I’m actually free this afternoon – want to meet up?
*Regrets communicating with the outside world.*
Sends: How does June’s happy hour sound? Five o’clock?
I remember a British study that claims that Sunday anxiety reaches its peak at 4:13 p.m. Scientific or not, that study has never proven more accurate.
I have yet to receive an answer to my text asking about 5 o’clock happy hour. The entirety of the world is a cruel joke, and I am the butt. Handcuffed with the inability to do anything for fear of receiving a text minutes after I begin doing something else that isn’t 5 o’clock happy hour, I realize that I will inevitably do nothing.
…and I’m doing nothing.
At this point, I just want the sun to go down so I have an excuse to do nothing.
Dammit. The sun went down. How did I waste this Sunday? But more importantly, what the hell am I supposed to do with myself?
*Begins scrolling HBO Go*
*Still scrolling HBO Go*
Note to self: never watch a murder drama on a Sunday night, or any other HBO drama for that matter. I need to stick to romantic comedies starring either Tom Hanks, Matthew McConaughey or, you know, Meg Ryan.
I want to take one too many melatonin gummies to ensure I don’t wake up at 2:30 a.m. in a cold sweat mid-work nightmare, but gnawing on three gummies that’ll eventually knock me out is tantamount to admitting that the weekend is officially over.
These gummies aren’t even working.
Holy shit, these gummies are no joke. Maybe chugging some ice water will chill them out. Or make me pee my pants at 2:30 a.m.
I can’t keep my eyes open so I go from an upright position of scrolling Instagram to a horizontal position of scrolling Instagram, all while debating posting an Instagram because everyone knows Sunday night is the best night for likes.
I roll over, television still on, and set my phone down with the intention of closing my eyes. The pile of laundry remains, complete with light-wash jeans at the bottom that could possibly be Meg Ryan’s.
Feature illustration by Emily Zirimis; photos by Will deFries.