======= ======= ====== ====== ====== ===== ==== ====== ====== ===== ==== ======= ======= ====== ====== ====== ===== ==== ====== ====== ===== ====
The Sunday Scaries is the anxiety and feeling of dread that sets in on Sunday nights with the impending return to the office, school, or work.
Before I accepted my current position, I made a certified living off the Sunday Scaries. In my ongoing quest to cure my own Scaries, I found myself Googling cures — none of which even got close to working because the authors of the articles clearly don’t live the life I live. Some girl at Wikihow posted the most atrocious Ten Ways To Overcome The Sunday Blues, culminating with one of the worst ideas I’ve ever heard:
Write a letter to yourself and open it on the next Friday. Write two paragraphs. In the first paragraph, express your emotions and disadvantages of Sunday Night. In the second paragraph, motivate yourself to have an amazing weekend and to live it like it’s the last weekend of your life.”
So, rather than do a rhetorical analysis on the article, I’ve decided to take a leap of faith and take their advice by writing myself a letter.
Dear Will,
Well, here we are again, man. It’s Sunday night and you went out this weekend. That 24-pack of Miller Lite you bought Friday after work? Yeah, it’s gone. That pint of queso you Postmated from your Uber at 1:45 a.m. this morning? You may not remember, but you ate the entire thing while listening to Bob Seger’s Live Bullet album on your couch before disposing of the evidence so sober you wouldn’t hate himself. The sad news? It didn’t work, and you currently fucking hate yourself. Look at yourself, man. Last Monday, you told yourself you were going to stay in this weekend and not hit it hard. Now you’re sitting in bed wearing elastic-waisted Patagonia Baggies with a puffy face and About Time playing on low volume in the background. And you have to go to work tomorrow despite wasting your entire weekend on double-well drinks and happy hours at restaurants you could never afford at full price.
But Will, you’ll be opening this letter next weekend, which — get this — is the last weekend of your fucking life. Imagine everything you could do: tie up some loose ends with friends, say your goodbyes, dance under the stars like no one is watching. But let’s be real here, that’s nappenin’. Get the gang back together, drain your AmEx card (because you’re going to get stuck with that bill), and get on a super yacht with Kid Rock in the middle of Lake fucking Michigan. Hard drugs? Buy ’em all. Pappy Van Winkle? That’s your water now. People are going to want to see you because they know your time is limited. Ignore them. If they aren’t in your favorite contacts on your iPhone, they don’t deserve the time of day from you.
Never stop being you,
Will
Yeah, Wikihow, that really worked. I just went from being a guy who was harmlessly and nervously spending like $150 on food and drink to a coke-snorting, bourbon-guzzling maniac. I’ve always said I’d take the lump sum rather than the smaller payments because there’d be no way I’d live beyond four years after winning the lottery. I’d live too fast, too hard, too awesome. This just proves that, at 28, I lack any semblance of responsibility.
But, in regards to the Sunday Scaries, a great man once told me, “If we’re all Scared collectively, we’re less Scared individually.” Once you know what the Scaries are, it’s almost impossible to avoid them unless you just morph into the most responsible and wealthy person on the face of the earth. Luckily, I’m here for you. Sunday after Sunday after Sunday after Sunday. .
Image via Shutterstock
Respond
Will
Will (Twitter / Instagram) is the host of The Sunday Scaries Podcast.
@willdefries
@willdefries
defriewf
will@grandex.co
I thought this was why they made Prozac. This isn’t the 1800s anymore, no one writes letters.
“In the second paragraph, motivate yourself to have an amazing weekend and to live it like it’s the last weekend of your life.”
I hate her.
I could do a couple pappy van winkles but I don’t thing many of us are fortunate enough to to get our hands on a bottle. In the meantime I’ll settle for my boy, Jim Beam.