Christians love Sundays and that makes sense to me. If I worshiped cake and someone told me that every Sunday for the rest of my natural born life (and the not-so-natural one, come to think of it) I’d be able to get up and spend time with cake, I’d be all like, “Fuck yeah, I’ll totally wake up at 7AM to go hang out with a bunch of people and give cake the attention it so deserves.”
But since that’s not the situation ’round these parts, Sundays are days of silent suffering.
Side note: I generally don’t believe in qualifying on the blog, after all, if you don’t want to hear my thoughts on something, I’d suggest you not come to my blog and read them at will, but I also understand that until I’m validated by some higher writing authority (say a publication), I do, from time to time, feel it’s appropriate to… clarify.
So, before I get all Chief from One Flew Over, let me say that I do not dread my life or my job for any other reason than that I have low self esteem and am CERTAIN that at any moment someone is going to figure out that I’m useless and my life will spin into a pit of irrevocable despair. Some of you are thinking to yourself, “wow. I think she needs to get on a little something.” To which I’ll let you know that I am on something, while others of you might be thinking, “get a grip” To which I cannot more emphatically tell you that I am trying. Seriously. I am.
Sundays are “put your ill-fitting High Functioning hat on” days. I intentionally remove the hat around 4:30 on Friday because I’ve been wearing it since the Sunday before and it gives me a psychosomatic headache just like those cheap plastic headbands that you can buy in three packs at the CVS. For 1.25 blissful days I get to swim in my personal pool of low expectations, sleeping late and answering simple questions like what kind of beer I’d like, or which place to order pizza from at 2AM. Plus, living with a quiet husband and a cat with no ability to communicate save playing in the toilet when he’s stressed, I don’t have to do much explaining. They know I’m useless. And that’s okay.
But come Sunday, it’s time to get serious. All that flitting around and pretending to be carefree is over. It’s not a weekend. IT’S A SCHOOL NIGHT. And that means you get your shit together, you get ready for the week ahead, and you try to get in bed by midnight.
So here’s how that translates for me:
Sometime between 9 – 11 AM: The subconscious dread. As the clock marches towards wake up time, my subconscious seizes the opportunity to torture me. Dreams about me being president suddenly turn into dreams about an obstacle course through quickly hardening cement. And my partner (the one I have to finish with in order to win the $50,000 prize) is a 650lb black woman in a HoverRound.
At that point there is no reason to embrace the morning and sleep in. It’s best to get up. Whatever additional sleep is possible will be fitful and plagued. How the hell am I going to win $50, 000 when my partner cannot see her own vagina?
The late morning and mid afternoon: These moments are filled with hope and inspiration. What will be in my future? A jog perhaps? A trip to the grocery store followed by a few hours of prepping meals for the week and cleaning the apartment? Maybe a good vacuuming or dusting would help us start off on the right foot.
No. None of those things will happen. Here’s is what will: paralyzing captivation with whatever bullshit is on Lifetime or USA. Followed, obviously, by at least an hour and a half of guilt and remorse for wasting the most productive hours of the afternoon on stories about babies who were switched at birth or some girl named Nancy who would rather be dead than eat a bagel. (Not judging. I love an eating disorder as much as the next person.)
So then I decide to jog. Because when you’ve wasted your final day of rest watching reruns of L&O:SVU and Facebook stalking your high school friends, there is only one thing that can right the wrong. Exercise. I usually make it to the bridge before either my asthma takes over or the leftovers I had for breakfast reach the staging area and I make a panicked, waddling, beeline back to my house.
By then it’s probably at least 4PM and my zest for the day is fading as the reality of my future sets in. What detail of my personal or work life did I blatantly overlook during the weekend that will likely cause everything to go boom? Why haven’t I made it to the grocery store? WHY DOESN’T STUART LOVE ME AS MUCH AS HE LOVES THE HUBS?
It’s at this point that I’ll probably stress eat something. And turn the TV back on to see if whomever is being showcased on Lifetime has it worse than me.
And then it’s evening. Oh evening.
There is always at least 2.5 hours of work. Unbillable, as it usually requires me going obsessively over my emails and creating little charts to make myself feel better. I always realize that what I thought was plenty of time on a project is in fact not enough time at all and what I should have been doing ALL WEEKEND LONG was buckling down and being an adult. There is always an internal monologue that sounds like something like the one you heard in that video they played in 8th grade Health class, right before the teacher gave you the speech about reaching out when you needed help.
By now the hubs realizes that his wife is gone and has been replaced by the transition woman. She’s the one who stays over while Saturday Caroline is being replaced by Monday Caroline. The transition woman is a hot mess. For starters, she’s a killjoy. Not only does she have the power to kill joy, she actually has the power to keep joy from being born. And she has rules. Very, very strict rules. And she’s manic. Between 7-9 PM all creatures of man and fur need to be helpful or get the hell out of the way. Things need to get done and if they don’t get done they are going to be blamed on everyone but Monday Caroline. Food needs to be planned for the week. Bedroom needs to be picked up to ensure a good start. The kitchen needs to be cleaned. The living room organized. And there is dinner. And bedtime. And ambitions for the week.
Cue Jessie Spano from Saved by the Bell.
As midnight approaches– the outlined bedtime for optimal week startage– the panic sets in.
Just a few more hours. Okay, okay, okay. One more. Just one more. Maybe just one more episode. Or maybe I’ll read. Or maybe if I could just get this one thing organized I’d sleep better. OH! Maybe I’ll do some crafts! I love crafts!
:::This is usually around the time that I start telling myself how I only need 4-5 hours of sleep. A stark contrast from morning Caroline, who vows to go to bed at 9:30 for the rest of her life.” :::
This is ridiculous, Caroline. What do you think happens in the Army? Do you think those men and women fighting for your safety get to sleep for 9 hours a night? NO! No they don’t! And don’t you think that if they were home safe in their beds they would embrace the opportunity to enjoy one of life’s little pleasures and stay up and watch a little more TV and do some crafts? Yes. Yes they would. That’s exactly what our service men and women would do. Crafts. At midnight on a Sunday. Besides, you obviously need to do work for a few more hours or you won’t be ready for the week. And you know what happens then… YOUR WHOLE LIFE WILL BE OVER! Mwhahahahahaha.
And that was just a sample monologue. I’m sitting here at 12:07 and I’m already worried about my Thursday workout. And what the weather is going to be on Saturday. And whether or not I should be worried about my nails chipping and make a proactive appointment for midweek or wait and see what happens. And what happens if the hubs comes home tonight and eats the leftovers in the fridge and I don’t have anything for lunch tomorrow and I don’t wake up early enough to make something? And are my bananas at the optimal ripedness for my oatmeal tomorrow morning? I hate it when they are too green. The flavor isn’t deep enough.
And then. And then. And then. And then.
I just need Monday to get here so Monday Caroline can take over and worry about this stuff.