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 founder, Leandra Medine.
The thing about a Sunday occurring on a Monday is that the latter is precisely what makes Sundays so scary. Which, you know, really makes you wonder: in the event that Sunday is actually an extended Saturday, and as a result, Monday becomes Sunday, what does that mean for Tuesday? Speaking from the perspective of someone delighted to find that it is already Friday, I’d like to suggest the launch of a coalition wherein we stop implicating Sundays, allow them to be extended Saturdays, and treat Mondays like an excuse to recover from the psychological thrill of a good weekend, not just the artist formerly known as Reopening That Spreadsheet! If there is room, I might also conduct a painting class using the inside of various steel containers of condiments.
If none of that was clear, and it is likely it was not, my “Scaries” were logged at the end of Labor Day Weekend, which can be argued to carry the weightiest Sunday (the state of mind, not the actual day) of all because it also prematurely inaugurates the end of summer and its lackadaisical Fridays. The jury is still out on whether this is true and I’ll explain why through my recount.
Here, by the way, is my recount.
I just woke up thinking about how to be the most productive through this day, the threat of a busy Tuesday is creeping in and not allowing me to fall back asleep, which is actually kind of helpful because my kids are going to wake me up any moment now anyway. I’m speaking at Parsons tomorrow at 9 a.m. on entrepreneurship (what do I know?), have a Man Repeller-related shoot at 11 a.m. (what do I wear?), an unexpected doctor appointment at 1 p.m. (how long will it take and will I be back for…), an edit meeting at 4 p.m. None of this takes into account two stories I should have finished last week (but which I did not), copy points for some marketing materials set to run in the next two months, two phone calls taking place in the afternoon and the sum of uncertainty that almost always sucks you in, also known as an inbox. That sounds like a lot, it is a lot, right? Is it too much? Does it matter? I’m going to have to–
I don’t even remember what I was talking about. The babies just finished their bottles. I’m going back to sleep.
I just consumed two slices of ezekiel toast. If you are after the details of how my digestive system is handling it, she can barely tell that one went down (it had almond butter on it), but I’m pretty sure it’s a little annoyed about the cinnamon raisin slice, on to which I lathered yogurt. Now I’m drinking a coffee next to the most recent issue of New York Times Magazine, flipped over to the first page, which is always where I can find my favorite installment, “First Words.” I’m also bouncing back and forth between two tabs — one that has me editing a piece on sharing and the other that is typing this. Like these words exactly. Those ones too. And these. This could on forever. I’m going to put an end to it.
I just packed my weekend tote — it occurred to me that you don’t know where I am, which is at my parents’ summer place on Long Island. We’ve spent every other weekend here this summer and until this point I have done a pretty good job of coming and going as I am, nary a single piece of hand luggage in sight, but today we’re closing shop, saying goodbye, sayonara and C U l8r for the season. This is usually my least favorite moment of the year, but I have to tell you, I am ready for the fall. I would not mind a long coat worn over jeans nor would I the harmless kiss of a breeze across my cheek. Don’t tell my hashtag I said that.
Wait. We’re leaving now. Right now! Why are we leaving so early? So soon. I didn’t even finish my coffee! I take back what I said. Give us a minute, fall, I’m still here 4 and with u, summer.
It’s probably best that we’re going back. I have a lot to do! And the best way, you know, to make a Sunday scary go away is to confront it head on and steal its power (your to-do list) and make it powerless (check things off of it).
Btw, Abie is listening to Alison Krauss on the radio right now. (She sings “When You Say Nothing At All.”) God, I love him.
Omg! I forgot to tell you what I’m wearing! A floral slip dress, satin slides and a cropped sweater which I really don’t need given that it is supposed to be like 93 degrees today.
We’re about to be home but I just have to tell you, we listened to a string of great podcasts from TED Radio Hour this morning. The first was about the power of design, the second was more wrapped up in identity and “becoming who you are.” It opened with an anecdote about a professional skier who took a bad fall and lost the permanent ability to ski again but ultimately went on to become an aerobatic pilot (her name is Janine Shepherd, she is quite famous). The point of her story was not what I am about to say, but this is what stuck out: when she was recalling having regained consciousness following her accident to learn that the majority of her body was broken, I tried to put myself in her position of finding myself at an intersection where life as I had known it was over. But then I thought: unless life is actually over, it’s never really over. Which really does make it beautiful. No? Maybe this sounded better in my head.
I also learned something I did not know: In Hinduism, widows wear white in perpetuity following their husbands’ death.
Listen to the episode, it’s really good. There’s some interesting stuff about power in there too. It’s called, “The Person You Become.”
In the hour that’s passed, I’ve fed my kids, I’ve unpacked my kids, I’ve played with my kids, I’ve put them to sleep. Now I’m eating lunch and (once again) skimming the cover story of this weekend’s New York Times Magazine issue. I have to say, this is the best part of Sunday. I wonder if creating this experience was taken into consideration when they launched Sunday sections and magazines. I WONDER!
At a coffee shop next door with my computer writing about, lol, getting coffee.
Well, that was a psychological trip I did not expect to go down but am thrilled to have experienced!
My kids have eaten again, now I am wearing one in a carrier and pushing the other in a stroller and together we are going to a park on Thompson Street. Abie is with us and he’s actually going to push the stroller but I asked if we could stop for a photo because I have genuinely had dreams, prior to conception, about holding one baby in a carrier and pushing another in a stroller and I can’t believe I’m living that dream and just want to remember this one Instagram quote I saved one time that read, “Remember when you wanted what you currently have.”
That was futile! It’s rly hot out there. We’re home already. Let me look at that coffee essay once more. My eyes are fresh, right? Oh, but wait, my pal is coming over to borrow a dress for a wedding she has next Friday!
That was fun, we had a fashion show in my closet, she took three options with her (here’s hoping she decides to execute outfit changes and wears all three!) and the kids are up again, from nap no.2. I’m going to take a shower and put on pajamas that hopefully match theirs and order dinner (it will be a salmon steak from Dimes with a side o’sweet potato fries from inside my fridge and I will be experiencing them dressed in various permutations of condiment) and hang with them, then send Amelia a bunch of private messages on Instagram that are actually a collection of memes.
I’m going to read a bit more from the paper but just to paint a picture for you, I’m in bed, NY1 is on in the background, and I’m thinking, at this very moment, about how much I love being in pajamas. I’m not sure if it’s actually about the pajamas so much as it is clothes that are reserved to be worn strictly while at home, but I’m also pretty sure there is something here because all I want to do is wear satin slippers or pearl encrusted mules with them, perhaps add a strand for my neck too and make sure red lipstick and a pair of black sunglasses are never withstanding. Am I a grown-up dying to play dress up? Am I self-infantalizing? Is this like, the opposite of adulting, or is it in fact a new form of adulting? What’s so wrong with having hobbies that reflect interests you maintained as a child? So long as I am not acting like a child and am just extracting the greatest parts from being one (see: a naïveté that was actually boundless imagination and possibility and !hope!), I’d say it’s actually fairly healthy.
I’m going to sleep. Bye!