Sunday morning began with a lie. “I’m just going to sit here for five minutes.” I said this at 9:12am while lowering myself onto the couch with a cup of coffee and a blanket. At 10:47, I was still there. In my defense, I had been very busy. I had adjusted the blanket twice, checked the weather even though I had no intention of going outside, watched seventeen short videos, researched whether penguins have knees, and stared thoughtfully out the window for several minutes. Productivity comes in many forms.
Unfortunately, there was an actual list of things I needed to accomplish: laundry, vacuuming, groceries, cleaning the bathroom, changing the sheets, taking out the garbage, and preparing something resembling food for the upcoming week. The list was sitting on the coffee table. I could see it. It could see me. We were not speaking.
At 11:03, I decided I should start with laundry. “Okay,” I announced to absolutely nobody. “I’m getting up.” I remained seated. Apparently, announcing an intention and physically participating in it are two completely different things. At 11:11, I tried again. “NOW.” Nothing. My body had apparently entered a binding agreement with the couch.
Eventually, I developed a strategy. I would count backward from five and get up at zero. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Zero. I took a sip of coffee. Interesting. Perhaps I had misunderstood the assignment.
At 11:26, I finally stood up. This was a huge moment. I walked directly past the laundry basket and into the kitchen. Why? Snack. Obviously. You can’t begin strenuous activities like putting clothing into a machine without proper nutrition.
I made toast. While waiting for it, I noticed the dishwasher needed emptying. Excellent. I could accomplish something while the toast cooked. I opened the dishwasher and removed one plate. The toaster popped. Dishwasher abandoned. Still, technically, I had started.
After eating, I carried the laundry basket to the washing machine. This took approximately thirty seconds, but emotionally it felt like I’d summited Everest. I started the washer. “One thing done!” Technically, it wasn’t done. It was wet and spinning. But I wasn’t going to let technicalities ruin this victory.
Feeling powerful, I decided to vacuum. I retrieved the vacuum cleaner and plugged it in. Then I noticed my phone was at 14%. Obviously, I needed to charge it before vacuuming. What if someone needed me? What if there was an emergency? What if I suddenly needed to know whether penguins really do have knees?
I plugged in the phone and sat on the edge of the couch. This was my second mistake. At 12:38, I woke up. Apparently, I had taken a nap. I hadn’t planned a nap. The nap had simply happened to me.
I checked the time and panicked. “HALF THE DAY IS GONE!” This wasn’t entirely true, but Sunday guilt doesn’t care about mathematics. I jumped up. Now I was motivated. Not healthy, cheerful motivation. Panic motivation. The kind where you suddenly believe you can clean an entire house in eleven minutes.
I vacuumed the living room at a speed normally associated with competitive sports. I wiped the kitchen counters, took out the garbage, transferred the laundry into the dryer, and cleaned the bathroom sink. Then I looked at the bathtub. The bathtub looked back. We silently agreed that next Sunday would be better for both of us.
It was now 1:22, and I was unstoppable. Then I remembered groceries. I needed actual food. I opened the refrigerator to assess the situation. There was mustard, pickles, half an onion, a questionable container of leftovers, and enough condiments to survive a minor apocalypse. There was nothing you could combine into a meal without involving several crimes against cuisine.
I needed to go shopping. This meant pants. Real pants. I looked down at my pajamas. “No.” For several minutes, the entire grocery trip was nearly cancelled because I did not want to put on jeans. Eventually, I compromised. Leggings. Society would have to accept me as I was.
I made a grocery list, grabbed my reusable bags, found my keys, put on shoes, and headed toward the door. Then I remembered the laundry. I went back. The dryer still had twenty minutes remaining. Well. Obviously, I couldn’t leave now. What if the dryer finished while I was gone? Nothing. Absolutely nothing would happen. But my brain had apparently decided I needed to supervise it.
So I returned to the couch. Third mistake.
At 2:31, I woke up again. SECOND NAP. This one felt personal. I sat upright, briefly confused about what year it was. Then I remembered the groceries. “RIGHT.”
I drove to the store. The parking lot was packed. Of course it was. Everyone else had apparently spent their morning napping too and had now collectively realized that Monday was coming. Inside, people wandered around with the same expression. Nobody wanted to be there. One woman stood in front of the bread looking genuinely betrayed by life. A man stared into a freezer for so long that I wondered whether he was considering moving in. I understood both of them.
I grabbed enough groceries to convince Future Me that Present Me cared about her. Vegetables, fruit, bread, something for lunches, something easy for dinner, and cookies. Because Future Me also deserves joy.
I returned home around 4:00. Now came the worst part of grocery shopping: putting the groceries away. I don’t understand why this feels like a separate chore. I already went to the store. I selected the items. I paid for them. I transported them home. Why are there additional steps? Nevertheless, I put everything away.
Then I remembered the sheets. The bed needed changing. I stripped it. This was a terrible decision because once you’ve removed the sheets, there is no going back. You have created a problem that must be solved before bedtime.
I put the clean sheets on. One corner popped off. I fixed it. Another corner popped off. I fixed that one. The first corner escaped again. At one point, I was kneeling on the mattress wrestling a fitted sheet and whispering words that would have disappointed my grandmother.
Eventually, the bed was made. It was 5:17. I looked at my list. Laundry: done. Vacuuming: done. Groceries: done. Bathroom: partially done, and we were going to respect that. Sheets: done. Garbage: done. Meal prep? Absolutely not. There are limits.
I had purchased food. That was enough commitment to the future. I crossed “meal prep” off the list anyway. Not because I’d completed it, but because I was tired of looking at it.
Then I showered, changed back into pajamas, and returned to the couch. This time, guilt-free. I pulled the blanket over myself and turned on the television. For the first time all day, I could actually relax, which was ironic because relaxing was literally the only thing I’d wanted to do since waking up.
The problem with Sundays is that they exist in two realities. There’s Sunday, the Day of Rest, and then there’s Sunday, the Oh-Crap-Tomorrow-Is-Monday Preparation Festival. You want to lie around doing absolutely nothing, but somewhere in the back of your mind, a tiny manager with a clipboard keeps shouting, “WHAT ABOUT THE LAUNDRY? YOU NEED GROCERIES! WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CHANGED THOSE SHEETS?”
But that evening, sitting in my clean pajamas with groceries in the refrigerator and fresh sheets waiting upstairs, I realized something. I’d gotten almost everything done. Not efficiently. Not gracefully. And certainly not without two accidental naps. But it was done.
I raised my mug toward the empty room. “To productivity.”
Then I looked at the clock. 6:14pm. Still plenty of Sunday left. I smiled, pulled the blanket higher, and settled deeper into the couch because I had officially completed enough responsibilities to earn the rest of the evening doing absolutely nothing.
And if anyone needed me, they could speak to me Monday.
Actually…
Tuesday would be better.
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