Hallo! Having me the usual kind of a Sunday night. Winding down after a long day of stressing about the fact that am stressing on a Sunday. Hiding from the inevitability of another pending Monday behind my laptop as the manboy shoots strangers online in his army camouflage onesie. I would take a picture, but I'm worried that if I do, manboy will stop feeding me and I'll have to go back to making weird pickle filled sandwiches a la my student days. Gherkin, ketchup and Branston pickle sarnie anyone? I don't have butter, but I could substitute mayo. It's kind of the same stuff, right?
I find Sundays stressful. I wake up worrying about the fact that I only have one precious day of weekend left. An internal rage then ignites within me because the dishes I didn't do on Saturday (who does dishes on a Saturday?? Ick) haven't been cleared away by the Weekend Elves (mine seem to permanently be on strike. Maybe I should start paying them. What currency do you think elves prefer? Euros? Werthers Originals? The teeth of my enemies?). Then I hate myself because it's suddenly nearly 3pm and I've achieved nothing more than a quick food shop in which I've followed A around Aldis, sneaking cool notepads and bags of popcorn into the trolley while he does the real shopping so we can survive without getting rickets.
I think my problem is that I simultaneously think that Sundays should be both super relaxing and mega productive. One half of my brain thinks that I should, run, write, clean, visit family, catch up with friends, take the dog for an adventure and many, many other things that require more than a single day's worth of hours. The other half thinks that eating crunchy things in front of reruns of First Dates and Gogglebox with the curtains drawn is the pyjama clad path to spiritual weekend nirvana. Usually I end up doing neither of these options and just have a bit of an all day tantrum, a nap and then I eat cookies and feel grumpy about wasting a whole day.
I could learn a thing or two from A. He gets up when he wants, faffs about in front of the TV for a couple of hours, does the shopping and then recognises that leaving the house even once on a Sunday is a brave feat and uses this as an incentive to chill out some more. We've been living together now for four-ish years. I think. The only anniversaries I remember are the dates on which we got our pets. It's good to remember the important things. I've done the obligatory student house share thing in my time (and loved it!), but A's the first person I've ever cohabited with alone. Not quite alone, but he's the only other biped in the house at least. Living in sin has been an interesting experience so far, and it's taught me a lot of things in our almost-I-think half decade of sharing a fridge. I mean house. Here are a few examples:
1. The longest you can stay angry at someone depends on how recently you've eaten.
It's totally justifiable to silently hate the back of someone's head for not reading your mind (and glares) as you aggressively hoover at their "gaming chair" (fold out camping chair that somehow survived Reading Festival) to make the point that they should be cleaning too, as the nuclear fallout-esque state of your house has started to bother you first. It's also totally justifiable to do a total u-turn and decide that he is an angel sent from heaven as soon as he utters those three words every girl longs to hear...
"Want some lunch?"
Yes, you will inevitably go back into passive aggressive aggro-clean mode when you realise that he utilised every pot, wok and skillet to make a simple bloody cheese sandwich, but that's beside the point.
2. If you don't rush things, you're much less likely to smack your head on open cupboard doors, shelves and walls.
One of us has considerably less cuts and bruises than the other because they don't feel like everything needs to be done right this second or their head will explode. Guess who.
3. It's okay to eat terribly if the other person is doing the same thing.
Takeaways, family sized snack buckets of chocolates and meals the size of a human head are all fine as long as you can shift some of the blame onto the other party. The inevitable slide to obesity is much more fun if you have someone to hold hands with on the way down. Wheeeee!
4. Last one to bed does the boring stuff!
My bedtimes are getting earlier and earlier. Both of ours are. Since getting the dog, the list of boring adult crap we have to do before hitting the hay is getting longer. Turn the telly off. Take the dishes out. Force the cat out the door if he's not looking too cute while he's sprawled out and unconscious because "Awww! I can't put him out when he's like that!" Freeze your tits off in the garden while the dog takes his time chewing thoughtfully on each individual blade of grass before deciding on a good place to void his bladder. Try to figure out where the totally black dog has disappeared in the pitch dark garden and somehow coax the invisible creature back inside.
If we're both starting work at the same time the following day, it becomes a game of bedtime chicken. Whoever manages to get out "goingtobednowokaygoodnight!" first and promptly leg it up the stairs gets to avoid all that bullshit. I'll be going to bed at 4pm before long if I can get away with it.
5. Box sets are more fun when you've got someone to talk at.
Actually, I'm not sure if A would agree with this one. I see TV time as social time. It's a time to vent all of my opinions and try to get to know the bestubbled male that shares my sofa by asking his opinions on everything too. For bonding and shit.
"I don't think I'd have shot that guy in that situation, even if he did make off with all the drugs. Would you? Ooh, I like her hair! What do you think? I think I'd survive in prison by just being nice to everyone, that way I can't make any enemies. But then again, they might steal all my shit because they'd think I'm soft. What if I carried a shiv with me? Just to make a point. Ha, that was almost a pun! I could make it out of a toothbrush and - wait, what did he say? Who died? I missed that bit, what happened? What's the best way to sharpen a toothbrush?"
I find Sundays stressful. I wake up worrying about the fact that I only have one precious day of weekend left. An internal rage then ignites within me because the dishes I didn't do on Saturday (who does dishes on a Saturday?? Ick) haven't been cleared away by the Weekend Elves (mine seem to permanently be on strike. Maybe I should start paying them. What currency do you think elves prefer? Euros? Werthers Originals? The teeth of my enemies?). Then I hate myself because it's suddenly nearly 3pm and I've achieved nothing more than a quick food shop in which I've followed A around Aldis, sneaking cool notepads and bags of popcorn into the trolley while he does the real shopping so we can survive without getting rickets.
I think my problem is that I simultaneously think that Sundays should be both super relaxing and mega productive. One half of my brain thinks that I should, run, write, clean, visit family, catch up with friends, take the dog for an adventure and many, many other things that require more than a single day's worth of hours. The other half thinks that eating crunchy things in front of reruns of First Dates and Gogglebox with the curtains drawn is the pyjama clad path to spiritual weekend nirvana. Usually I end up doing neither of these options and just have a bit of an all day tantrum, a nap and then I eat cookies and feel grumpy about wasting a whole day.
"Chin(s) up and eat your chunks, Chunk!"
I would find a filter to make me look a bit less Dawn of the Dead, but
1. I can't be arsed &
2. My hands are full of cookies
I could learn a thing or two from A. He gets up when he wants, faffs about in front of the TV for a couple of hours, does the shopping and then recognises that leaving the house even once on a Sunday is a brave feat and uses this as an incentive to chill out some more. We've been living together now for four-ish years. I think. The only anniversaries I remember are the dates on which we got our pets. It's good to remember the important things. I've done the obligatory student house share thing in my time (and loved it!), but A's the first person I've ever cohabited with alone. Not quite alone, but he's the only other biped in the house at least. Living in sin has been an interesting experience so far, and it's taught me a lot of things in our almost-I-think half decade of sharing a fridge. I mean house. Here are a few examples:
1. The longest you can stay angry at someone depends on how recently you've eaten.
It's totally justifiable to silently hate the back of someone's head for not reading your mind (and glares) as you aggressively hoover at their "gaming chair" (fold out camping chair that somehow survived Reading Festival) to make the point that they should be cleaning too, as the nuclear fallout-esque state of your house has started to bother you first. It's also totally justifiable to do a total u-turn and decide that he is an angel sent from heaven as soon as he utters those three words every girl longs to hear...
"Want some lunch?"
Yes, you will inevitably go back into passive aggressive aggro-clean mode when you realise that he utilised every pot, wok and skillet to make a simple bloody cheese sandwich, but that's beside the point.
2. If you don't rush things, you're much less likely to smack your head on open cupboard doors, shelves and walls.
One of us has considerably less cuts and bruises than the other because they don't feel like everything needs to be done right this second or their head will explode. Guess who.
3. It's okay to eat terribly if the other person is doing the same thing.
Takeaways, family sized snack buckets of chocolates and meals the size of a human head are all fine as long as you can shift some of the blame onto the other party. The inevitable slide to obesity is much more fun if you have someone to hold hands with on the way down. Wheeeee!
4. Last one to bed does the boring stuff!
My bedtimes are getting earlier and earlier. Both of ours are. Since getting the dog, the list of boring adult crap we have to do before hitting the hay is getting longer. Turn the telly off. Take the dishes out. Force the cat out the door if he's not looking too cute while he's sprawled out and unconscious because "Awww! I can't put him out when he's like that!" Freeze your tits off in the garden while the dog takes his time chewing thoughtfully on each individual blade of grass before deciding on a good place to void his bladder. Try to figure out where the totally black dog has disappeared in the pitch dark garden and somehow coax the invisible creature back inside.
If we're both starting work at the same time the following day, it becomes a game of bedtime chicken. Whoever manages to get out "goingtobednowokaygoodnight!" first and promptly leg it up the stairs gets to avoid all that bullshit. I'll be going to bed at 4pm before long if I can get away with it.
5. Box sets are more fun when you've got someone to talk at.
Actually, I'm not sure if A would agree with this one. I see TV time as social time. It's a time to vent all of my opinions and try to get to know the bestubbled male that shares my sofa by asking his opinions on everything too. For bonding and shit.
"I don't think I'd have shot that guy in that situation, even if he did make off with all the drugs. Would you? Ooh, I like her hair! What do you think? I think I'd survive in prison by just being nice to everyone, that way I can't make any enemies. But then again, they might steal all my shit because they'd think I'm soft. What if I carried a shiv with me? Just to make a point. Ha, that was almost a pun! I could make it out of a toothbrush and - wait, what did he say? Who died? I missed that bit, what happened? What's the best way to sharpen a toothbrush?"
"Hey, it's that bloke off my sofa!!"
Happy Sunday! I hope yours was relaxing and/or productive as opposed to a stress-sweat-and-naps nightmare like mine. And if your Sundays do go anything like mine, let me know so I can feel marginally less mental. PLEASE TELL ME I'M NOT ALONE!!
*sobs into cookies*
'kay, bye.
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