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.
There’s a catch with this one: it’s actually a MONDAY Scaries Diary. Our dear host below had herself a Sunday Funday.
Monday, 7:10 a.m.: I set my alarm for this time because last night, I swore I’d go to the gym. I was not sober for this decision.
I spent the better part of my Sunday on the couch with my roommates, Martha and her dog Red, looking at the mess we were meant to clean. At around 3 p.m. I decided to go to the gym, which, by 3:45 p.m., devolved into meeting my friends at a sports bar. By 9 p.m., after my last tequila shot, I decided to take myself home. The rest is a slight blur including the reason for the early athletic wake-up.
7:15 a.m.: I pass the critical moment where I could get up and decide it’s better to stay in bed to nurse the anxiety I drank through the night before. My Sunday nights typically consist of replaying every stupid thing I’ve done since age four in my head followed by obsessively deciding what I would wear should I ever go on Oprah and, then, thinking about everything I have to do for work and whatever dating crisis I’m working through. This process usually starts around 11 p.m. and ends around 2 a.m., then picks back up around 5 a.m., ending in time for me to fall asleep just before my alarm. I’m cramming all this into an hour and a half.
8:47 a.m.: I decide it’s time to get up. It’s when I have no time that I do the most dicking around. I try on two different pairs of pants and settle for the one pair I always think I like but then, halfway through the day, decide I hate and vow never to wear, until two months later when I repeat the cycle.
I actually look, and feel, a lot like Kate from Cutting Edge after she drank for the first time and threw herself at D.B Sweeney.
9:10 a.m.: I get coffee at The Elk across from my apartment and start the highlight of my day, which is walking to work. I like to listen to the same song about five times in a row while further angsting. I spend the 30-minute walk raging about Kellyanne Conway’s inability to answer a direct question and that weird couch pose she did that quickly became a meme.
9:43 a.m.: I arrive, go through my emails and make a list on a Post-it of what I need to do. I then remember that it’s Monday and Reformation posts its new product today, so I immediately hit that up.
When it occurs to me that I don’t get paid until next week, I go somewhere bleaker than my bank account and try FoxNews.com. I visit it every day because I like to keep an eye on them. I get a text from my friend Alix which only reads the :I emoji. I scroll up and see that last night, I engaged in a political fight with our mutual pregnant friend’s Trump-supporting husband. Yikes. I decide I may want to actually do something I’m paid to.
10:03 a.m.: Further fuel the anxiety fire burning inside of me by trying to get organized for this upcoming Fashion Month.
10:15 a.m.: I have four bachelorette parties to go to this spring.
11:03 a.m.: Send an email to my co-workers and best friends Margo and John — subject, “Opt Out,” which explains that I’m hungry and will be ordering sushi promptly at 11:50 a.m. so it can get here by 12:30 p.m.
12:23 p.m.: Food arrives. We sit in a glass conference room and John inquires if I’ve heard from this one sociopath I’ve been torturing myself with. When the answer is “NO OBVIOUSLY NO,” Margo tells me I should never speak to him again.
“Well it’s not like she has a choice!” John says. Lunch is done.
12:57 p.m.: Feeling dark from lunch, I text something stupid to someone I used to date over a year ago who now has a girlfriend. Because I’m evolved. I want to share this with three of my best friends along with my general darkness, but one is sending the group chat baby photos of her friend’s newborn and I just can’t follow that.
1:15 p.m.: Debate erasing the incredibly basic video I posted from the night before on Instagram.
1:17 p.m.: Debate calling my mom.
1:17:07 p.m.: Decide definitively not to call my mom.
1:20 p.m.: Hit the Wendy Williams “HOW YOU DOING” button that sits on my desk over and over. I can feel my team judging as I say “NOT GREAT, WENDY” each time.
2:03 p.m.: Finish email from this morning.
2:27 p.m.: Get a text from my friend’s husband who I cyberbullied the night before. The situation did not get better after a night’s sleep, it turns out.
2:33 p.m.: One more piece of chocolate.
3:37 p.m.: Should I get eyelash extensions?
4:05 p.m.: Resolve to go back to Refine Method classes tomorrow. I haven’t been in three weeks, mostly because my card had a fraud alert and I haven’t mustered the emotional energy to change my account information. It’s a fun game I like to play with myself: see how long I can go without doing something, especially where money’s involved. I’m currently doing this dance with Verizon. I plan on paying eventually, while listening to Sinatra’s “My Way.”
4:15 p.m.: After attempting on both the app and online, I resort to calling a human to book my class, which defeats the purpose of living in a world run by robots.
5:20 p.m.: Margo sends me an article written by InStyle EIC Laura Brown’s hot younger boyfriend about being her hot younger boyfriend. I have a crush on Laura and this story now makes me feel less dark about the lunch conversation. He’s a comedian, which leads me to mull dating a comedian. A Colin Jost type? Actually, just Colin Jost.
5:34 p.m.: Colin Jost and I are dating.
5:58 p.m.: Receive a random text: “Sorry, never saw this. It’s Austin from summer Tinder. It was a drunk text.” This is interesting for a couple of different reasons. 1. I’m not on Tinder, nor was I this summer. 2. He apparently texted me on January 9th, “Hey You,” and when I asked who he was…it took him until today to respond with that.
6:03 p.m.: Maybe I should pull an Austin and direct message Colin Jost on Instagram.
6:12 p.m.: John comes over to my desk to help me try to find Austin. He texted me from his iCloud account so I have his last name. When Google yields a man with long black hair in a vest holding a stuffed dead owl, I call it.
6:23 p.m.: Resolve to give up dating, drinking, Instagram, Colin Jost and politics and instead go to the gym as I leave work.
6:31 p.m.: It’s beginning to hail-rain, which is comforting because I like when the weather matches my mood.
6:44 p.m.: As I wait for the elevator to go to the locker room, I receive a text from my uncle to me, my aunt, my roommate Martha and his friend: “Burgers and martinis?” My aunt and uncle moved a few blocks away from me, which is great since I hang out with them more than my other friends. If I had received this text five minutes earlier, I would not currently be at the elevator of my gym.
7:03 p.m.: The machine I’m using just shuts down.
7:15 p.m.: The other machine I’m using just shuts down. This is totally fine since I go to Equinox and obviously that doesn’t cost any money. COMMIT TO SOMETHING LIKE WORKING MACHINES, EQUINOX.
7:30 p.m.: I’m done. The universe is against me and there is a martini in my future.
7:38 p.m.: It’s pouring rain and I’m a child so I don’t have an umbrella. My forehead is frozen, my coat is not waterproof and my ankles are exposed. When I walk into the restaurant my aunt asks me where my umbrella is. I lie and say it broke on the walk over here.
8:40 p.m.: Martha finally shows up, which means I have to have another martini. This is also the first time we’ve spoken today since she has been busy at work and I was busy mitigating a 12-hour-long anxiety attack. She reminds me that she has a family obligation tomorrow and I agreed to watch the dog overnight. Need another martini.
10:11 p.m.: My aunt reluctantly gives me her umbrella because she is horrified both Martha and I don’t own one. Martha says we should take a cab. I remind her we live five blocks away and that would be pathetic.
10:40 p.m.: In bed, finally feeling better. Maybe I got all the angst out. I make a few mental notes about the rest of the day for this diary, which results in deeper self-reflection that I spent more time debating working out than actually working out, ordered sushi, took two selfies, potentially made my friend’s husband cry and entered and ended a fake relationship with a TV writer. Tomorrow is another day.
Feature illustration by Emily Zirimis.
