Welcome to MR’s Sunday Scaries Diaries, where we chronicle our post-weekend nerves in an effort to make all of us feel a little less alone as we procrastinate Monday. Below, the Sunday Scaries Diary of MR’s Fashion Editor, Harling Ross.
Is there anything Sunday-scarier than waking up and remembering you volunteered to write a diary about your day even though you have absolutely zero plans? I’m not sure. Nevertheless, I am calmed by the revelation that I slept in until 10:30 a.m. (a body clock rarity) because I haven’t slept well the last few nights. I lounge in bed for awhile and try to make the most of the fact that I have nothing exciting to do today, a prospect that usually delights me.
I congratulate myself for not being hungover, a welcome change from the previous morning.
My boyfriend, Austin, asks me what I want to do for brunch. I’m craving Sant Ambroeus, which is around the corner from his apartment and has really good (i.e. buttery) omelettes, so I suggest going there. He agrees, and we head out. We get a table outside and order our food (an omelette with spinach and mushrooms washed down with a whole milk iced cappuccino for me, and smoked salmon with toast for him). We’re not being particularly chatty, I think because we are both eavesdropping on a funny conversation happening at the table behind us. Or I am, at least.
We sit around Austin’s apartment and make up for our lack of chattiness at brunch. I talk about everything I have to do this week and suddenly I feel the unpleasant but familiar churn of anxiety settle in my stomach (right next to the eggs). This happens to me pretty consistently on Sunday afternoons: Instead of looking at the incoming weekdays and their associated tasks like a neat row of Dominos, waiting for me to tip them over one by one, I tend to see them as a gargantuan, indistinguishable lump of to-dos. This outlook tends to exacerbate some of my baser insecurities, too, which is probably why I find myself suddenly and silently staring at my thighs, thinking I don’t particularly love how they look in these shorts, when the sound of a voice sucks me out of the bubble. I turn my head and realize it is Austin asking me what’s wrong. “Nothing,” I say. “Just anxious.”
My mom texts me a photo of her puppy, and suddenly my anxiety feels utterly digestible. What’s so bad about having a lot of stuff to do, anyways? Just this morning I was stressing about having nothing to do, and two hours later I’m stressing about the opposite. That, my lizards, is straight-up peanuts. I am invigorated by this revelation. I pat my thighs and thank them for taking my absurd critique like true professionals. Puppies, man.
I decide to make my way home to take care of some of the aforementioned “stuff I need to do,” starting with a trip to the grocery store, which is possibly my favorite variety of adult errand. After years of accompanying my mom to the grocery store as a child and obediently keeping my hands inside my lap, I don’t think I’ve ever fully adjusted to the equal parts intoxicating and delightful power of being able to throw candy into my shopping cart as I’m checking out just because I can.
I go to Whole Foods and pick up a few things: baby spinach, baby carrots (hooray for miniature food), broccoli, popcorn, tempeh, tofu, teriyaki sauce, greek yogurt and kombucha. I grab a chocolate bar as I’m checking out because I really set myself up for that huh?
I put in a load of laundry and clean my room while watching Jane the Virgin, a show I started watching because Haley keeps talking about it at the office. It’s delightful. [Ed note from Haley: YESSSSSSSS!!!!!!!]
I was planning to order takeout for dinner because I’m feeling lazy, but when I’m unloading groceries in my kitchen I realize I have two sweet potatoes that need to be cooked soon, so I decide to roast them along with some of the broccoli and tempeh I just purchased. Having recently resolved to cook more often at home, I am in the process of perfecting my method for the perfect sweet potato. One thing I’ve realized (after like, one trial and one error) is they can take AWHILE to cook, so I figure I should start roasting them now while I’m waiting for my laundry to finish and eat them later when I’m hungry. I cut the two sweet potatoes in half and lay them down on a baking sheet. One of them has white flesh and the other orange. After sticking them in the oven, I search “types of sweet potatoes” on Google and educate myself on this important topic.
After my Google sesh, I start prepping the rest of my dinner. I marinate some tempeh in teriyaki sauce and coat two heads of broccoli in coconut oil. I think to myself that I am potentially having the most boring Sunday ever but at least I’m a beacon of authenticity. On that note, I take a break from my meal prep to go into the bathroom and pluck a few chin hairs.
I look out the window and try to determine whether or not it’s actually about to pour. Despite what my weather app says, it seems like it’s going to hold off for a bit, so I decide to go for a quick run outside while the rest of my food is cooking. I throw on some workout clothes, take the sweet potatoes out of the oven, swap in the broccoli and tempeh and head out into an armpit’s worth of New York summer humidity.
I run for about 20 minutes before calling it quits — just enough time for the frizz around my head to reach a uniquely seductive peak. Right when I arrive back at my doorstep, it starts to rain. A Sunday Scaries miracle.
I shower. (<– Should that be the headline of this story?)
Dressed in a fluffy bathrobe and shellacked with Drunk Elephant’s Babyfacial mask, I clean my room and organize some outfits for a small “e-commerce” shoot I’m doing with Edith for her highly anticipated T-shirt launch. I regard the fruits of my labor (i.e. a stack of clothes on my bed) and hope I am doing her Pantone shirts justice.
I remove the face mask, change into PJs and sit down to eat my dinner: the white-fleshed sweet potato (sorry for all the times I’ve said “flesh” so far in this diary), some tempeh and more broccoli than I’ve ever consumed in one sitting. It is delicious but extremely un-photogenic.
My roommate Sofia comes home, which is great news because the sound of my own thoughts is starting to take on the tenor of Janice in Friends. We hang out for awhile and talk about her wedding planning progress. She sends me the discount code for her hotel block so I can book my room in advance, which I do immediately. Her wedding is in April 2019, but hey, a to-do list is a to-do list, and I’m still running on puppy endorphins. I also attempt to organize the tangle of jewelry that has accumulated on my nightstand.
After successfully wrestling my freshly washed duvet cover back on my bed, I climb in and crack open a new book — Tara Westover’s Educated, a memoir about her experience growing up in a survivalist family that didn’t believe in going to the doctor or attending school. I’m immediately engrossed.
I start to get sleepy, so I close my iPad and conch out like the crab that I am.
Graphic by Madeline Montoya.