Every Sunday morning I wake up at 7 a.m., hungover as a fraternity rushee who didn’t know the delicious punch he had been drinking the previous night was really just crystal light packs and Everclear. I have all the classic symptoms — a splitting headache, the spins, an inability to think or form words, and the intense desire to purge my body of the 3-in-the-morning burrito I had ingested. I try desperately to fall back asleep, but my body, almost reveling in punishing me for my actions, does not allow me. As I resign myself to another day of chugging Gatorade, paying delivery fees on foods I could walk to, and the Sunday Scaries, I always think the same five words: I’m taking next weekend off.
And you know what? I mean it. I mean it just as much on Monday morning when I drag my somehow still hungover ass out of bed and blearily put in eight hours of garbage time at work.
Come Tuesday, my willpower is just as strong. Yeah, I feel like a person again and I crushed out some cardio after work, but I am resolute as hell in my weekend off.
Wednesday comes and goes, and I stay the course. No mid-week happy hour for me. My resolve is firmer than my dick after seeing my first pair of tits during the summer of 1999. It took my dial-up Internet 45 minutes to download a single picture of Carmen Electra, and I had to restart twice because someone called the house line.
“This is the week,” I think to myself on Thursday. I’m going to power through the next two days and enjoy a weekend of being productive; getting some much needed rest, and eating healthy.
Friday morning. My alarm clock goes off at an ungodly hour, but I’m fine with it. I shower serenely, a smile on my face, knowing that in just nine hours, I will be posted on the couch, reading a book on my Kindle that I have yet to remove from it’s packaging since it arrived three weeks ago, and having some “me time.” I’m almost shocked at how excited I am to stay in.
Then, as I’m finishing my lunch, I see my group text go off. The crew is discussing where they are going out tonight. I fire a text back, stating that I am taking a weekend off. But as I press send, I feel something strange inside me. Deep in the back of my brain, I feel a pang of wanting. I try to ignore it, but as the texts keep coming and the end of the workweek approaches, the feeling grows. By the time I’m on the train home, the feeling is unmistakable.
It is the Friday Itch — the direct precursor and cause of the Sunday Scaries. The itch to go out, to do something, to meet girls and sing karaoke and drink gin and tonics ‘til the sun comes up (Shout out to 5 a.m. last calls. I love you, Chicago). “What good would staying in even do me?” I ask myself. “I worked hard this week, I deserve a break,” and “I’m young, I can’t be wasting my weekends doing nothing,” My brain points out. And just like that, I know I have lost. The Friday Itch is relentless, a yearning that even the strongest logic and memories of Sunday mornings past cannot overcome. And as I admit defeat, a wave of cheerfulness washes over me. Yes I will feel like garbage on Sunday, but that’s Future Nick’s problem. I fire off a text telling the crew I will be joining them for drinks, and immediately receive one in return.
“We know, you pull this shit every week. We saved you a seat at the bar.” .
Image via Shutterstock