Each week I read Will’s Panic Room breakdowns with curiosity, and I must admit, the smallest amount of jealousy. You see, I never knew what the Sunday Scaries were. Sure, I knew what they were, but my work schedule isn’t bracketed along your typical Monday to Friday 9 to 5, so I never really exprienced the anxiety that a fresh work week could cause. That is, until now.
We were slow all last week. Between the unpredictable weather and everyone’s holiday obligations no one was beating down the door to get in 18 holes, so I mentally checked out around 4 p.m. Wednesday. In a rare moment of sanity, we decided to close the course for New Year’s, which meant come 1 p.m. Saturday I had nowhere to be and no obligations to fulfill until 6:30 Monday morning. I had two bottles of champagne the capital R roommate bought a couple weeks ago for my birthday on the off chance we might break our 300 day streak of falling asleep by midnight (we didn’t), so I was looking forward to opening those as well as the litany of other alcohol I received for my birthday and Christmas.
Fast forward through a quiet NYE at home that kept the streak intact, and I awoke at 8 a.m. Jan 1 ready to tear 2017 a new one. The champagne sat innocently in the fridge, unopened and laughing at me for not being popped the previous year, so I opened a bottle and proceeded to get a mimosa going to occupy a hand while I cooked breakfast. Orange juice got swapped for beer for my mimosa, and one became six, and by noon I was sloshed. Again, fast forward, this time through a champagne black out, and it’s now 6 p.m. Sunday Jan. 1st, 2017. Eighteen hours into the first day of the new year, and all I have to show for it is bed head and a splitting headache.
All the plans I had for my day off are gone. Sneaking onto the course for some isolated practice? Forget it. There’s 10 minutes of sunlight left. Quiet day at the house spent catching up on all the reading I haven’t had time for? That ship sank when I lost the ability to see clearly, which was around 11 a.m. Taking the ole cow dog for a run? She’s at the other end of the couch staring at me with disappointment in her eyes.
As I stumbled outside to see the sun sinking behind the clouds, and the full gravity of not only my mistake but how long I would have to wait to try to rectify it started to hit me. I felt it. An anxious, cold, hollow panic that began with my hangover and increased with each realization of what tomorrow would bring. The Sunday Scaries. After months of speculating if I’d ever really felt it, now I finally know what inspired a column, a t-shirt, and weekly tweets to Will deFries of candlelit living rooms. No thanks. I never want to experience that again. I’ve been up at 3 a.m. on page 3 of a 20 page final paper due at 9 the next morning and haven’t felt that combination of anxiety and panic.
I wanted to crawl back in bed and pray for Death to come sweep me up in his arms and take me away from this hell I had created for myself. My mind kept repeating everything I did from the time I got off to work to now, which was nothing but drinking and eating, and then berating me with how quickly 6:30 was going to come and how soon my work week was going to start. How do y’all do this each week? How do you stand the self loathing, the regret, the anxiety over what awaits you a mere twelve hours from now? Are candles, sweatpants, wine and Netflix really that potent against your own self induced cesspool of poor decisions and looming professional obligations?
To cope, I took the capital R roommate to Collateral Beauty (highly recommend), snuck Whataburger into said movie (also recommend) and bought a couple glasses of Messina Hof Beau to accompany my Whataburger.
Hopefully, I got my Scaries out of the way for 2017. I don’t want to say I’m glad I experienced them, because I wouldn’t wish that kind of misery on anyone. I’m glad though that when I read the column Monday morning I’ll have a little more understanding, a little more empathy for the battle you guys fight each week. Stay strong y’all. .
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