I don’t often get upset. I maintain a cool and calm demeanor unless something goes truly wrong, and my highs are certainly higher than my lows are low.
But last night. Oh, last night.
There’s a sinking feeling that falls over you when something bad happens. When you realize that you got passed up for a job that was given to someone else; when your ex finds someone before you do; when you order a bottle of champagne at a restaurant and the waiter tells you, “I’m sorry, we just ran out.” But last night I got that feeling out of the blue when I realized that noted website Vice (the purveyor of all things, “What the hell?”) had interviewed a slew of people about their Sunday Scaries avoidance tactics without even reaching out to me.
And then when I clicked? Well, my heart nearly stopped given their actual answers. Yes, I felt slighted. Slighted enough to discuss them at length.
Claire, 32, Writer, Portland, OR
In my experience, the best remedy for Sunday Scaries is a good, hard fuck. My ritual is to take a hot bath and shave my legs and tidy up before my partner comes over. I like to put on my leather collar, which is a signal that I’m ready—I consent to being spanked or paddled. I have always liked my partner to come over with a toolbox—clothespins, a wooden paddle, a Wartenberg pinwheel, a gag, and handcuffs.
The anticipation erases my anxiety. I love pain play because it takes me out of my head instead of worrying about tomorrow. Afterwards, it’s common practice to snuggle or take a bath together, or do something soothing, which completely banishes any “scaries” for a little longer.
Oh my word. While I do have a theory that people become horny when they’re hungover because their brain is functioning at a baseline level, Claire here took things way too far (Cue the Claire ‘Things Girls Do After Graduation’ jokes). The last thing my brain needs when I’m licking my wounds from a long weekend is getting paddled to death while a leather collar restricts my breathing. My body is already covered in a layer of filth from cold sweats and alcohol withdrawal, so getting that extra sex-sludge on my person makes me want to vomit.
Can’t you just skip the S&M play and fast forward straight to the snuggle and bath, Claire?
Elizabeth, 28, Public Relations, New York, NY
As the evening rolls around, I will get myself to the gym, no matter what the day was like, drunk brunch sessions included. It’s the only way I can turn my mind off.
After the gym, I scribble out a tiny list around 8:30 pm. Because the lists are so illegible and seemingly chaotic, people lovingly refer to them as my ransom notes.
Sometime later, I will make a point of snacking on a bowl of popcorn with chocolate chips—lots of chocolate chips—it’s basically a bowl of chocolate chips—while doing a crossword puzzle.
I don’t care if you’re dead on a yoga mat listening to rain sounds on Spotify or if you’re running your normal loop in public – working out with a stag-five hungover is the high-horse move of all high-horse moves. I get it – it’s a mental boost and you feel better about yourself given the caloric intake your body just suffered from Friday at 5 p.m. until Sunday at 2 a.m. But if things go south when you’re at 7 on the treadmill? You’re risking passing out or, even worse, throwing up into your gym towel.
Skip the chocolate chips, skip the gym. That’s my motto. Or at least go to a spin class where you can mail it in should your body decide to shut down in the middle of your workout. It’s dark enough that no one will notice your corpse next to your bike while “Closer” blasts through the speakers and Instructor Trish yells at you.
Thomas, 27, Marketing, Austin, TX
I go to yoga every Sunday night even if I miss the rest of the week because it teaches me to be present regardless of what’s going on around me. It’s a candlelight yoga class, and the mood in the room is really quiet. I think everyone’s there for the same reason at that time.
My yoga teacher says his favorite classes are Sunday classes because everyone is so dedicated to “being in the now.”
Just when I’m out on Sunday activities, Thomas ropes me back in. Candlelight? Being present? Quiet? Not to freak you out, Thomas, but I need to give you my number so you can give me the rundown of where I need to head in Austin. Or at least give me your yoga instructor’s number so I can schedule a private session.
Jason, 25, Publicist, Astoria, NY
I get my lunch packed and meals prepped early, so that I can engage hyper-relaxation mode for as long as possible until bedtime. This entails incense, dim lights, my couch, a huge blanket and chill music. It’s a form of meditation and mental preparation that, if skipped, leads to heightened Sunday Scariness. It helps quite a lot, but that anxiety can never be entirely quelled. I think it’s part of the human condition.
I’m not saying Jason follows me on Twitter, but I am saying that he’s definitely referred to his #chillsitch as a “Panic Room” at least once in his life. Or he smokes weed. Actually, on second thought, Jason definitely smokes weed. No one just burns incense if they’re not trying to cover up the smell of the sticky they got from their dealer hours before. Scented candles are one thing, but incense is just blatantly heady.
Chris Demarais, 29, Writer, Austin, TX
I’ll start drinking during brunch with friends and turn Sunday into a Saturday. Or when my friends are busy, I’ll drink at home with my Roomba. Sometimes I’ll take the opposite approach and turn my Sunday into a Monday and attempt to get a head start on the week. Generally this entails sitting on my laptop, staring blankly at my screen, trying to force myself to work.
I fucking hate this guy. Never mind the fact that Vice interviewed the wrong fucking writer from Austin fucking Texas. Never mind that he’s a year younger than me and is taunting me with that extra youthfulness. And never mind that he made a joke that he drinks with his Roomba.
Turning your Sunday into a Saturday? That’s how Monday blues ensue. “Sunday Funday” is the worst term to plague our generation since everyone introduced “millennials,” and anyone who aspires to be a functional adult while still enjoying a “Sunday Funday” is my mortal enemy. Furthermore, turning your Sunday into a Monday? Worst idea since guys started wearing choker necklaces. The entire point of Sundays is to sit on your bed under a blanket worrying about Monday – not reveling in it.
Candice, 29, Writer, Brooklyn, New York
I thank Baby Jesus for BRAVO. The Real Housewives are all my besties. I indulge in all of their drama. The New York City and ultra-delusional Atlanta wives are my favorites. Sipping a cocktail or glass of wine is surprisingly my last resort. My job requires me to be surrounded by food and drinks often, so I try not to make it a crutch, but a delicious CRUMBS cupcake and wine has been a great Band-Aid in the past. I also try singing the Beatles. My go-to tune is “Yellow Submarine.” It’s light, whimsical, and makes no sense. Perfect for a mental vacation.
Candice, I like you. I like you a lot. While I thank Baby Jesus every single day that my girlfriend doesn’t watch BRAVO religiously, I applaud your efforts to say “fuck it” and mail your Sundays in. Calories don’t count on Sundays and Candice lives by that mantra given her affinity for cupcakes and couches.
Oh, and that mental vacation she’s talking about? You can just tell us about your Xanax ‘script, Candice. This is a judgment-free zone. We’ll all get through this together. .