Marissa Frobes | Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Sunday is a day of rest — so says God, so says the Bible, so says I. Yet Sunday looms in my mind as the day when I need to accomplish a million and one things on my “To Do” list.
This list goes something like this: one hundred pages of reading I did not finish last week, two hundred to get done for next week, start a paper, study for a test, call mom, clean room, etcetera etcetera. What I plan on doing and what I actually get done are two completely different things.
I set my alarm for 9 a.m., but in the morning decide that listening to my iHome (and stand-in alarm clock) for three hours until noon is less annoying than climbing down my loft to shut it off and inevitably begin my depressing day.
At noon, once I actually force myself to see daylight, I plan on heading to South for a quick bite to eat before my excursion to the library. I convince myself 30 minutes is enough to enjoy brunch.
Next thing I know, it is my friends, the dining hall employees and I left at South Dining Hall. It is 2:45 p.m., and though I have pieced together what my friends and I have actually been doing for the past two days, I have yet to cross off a single thing on my list.
Brow furrowed, I run through the huddle and grab a triple-grande latte to sneak into the library. I finally arrive at around 3:15 p.m., settle into my favorite table in the back-right corner and open a book.
I find myself reading the same sentence over and over for approximately 20 minutes. Then Facebook albums from the weekend start blowing up my news feed — there is no hope for homework at this point until at least after dinner. Do I want to go to Chipotle? Of course, the walk to Eddy Street alone adds about 30 minutes to my meal, and I will do anything in the holy name of procrastination.
By the time I get back on campus, I decide to work in my single because surely I will be more productive alone. I sit down on my futon with a book, put “Keeping Up With the Kardashians” on low volume and get to work. But I get completely immersed in the woes of Kortney and Khloe and am therefore completely incapable of reading or even skimming. It is 11 p.m. and I have nothing accomplished.
Without a doubt, this is the way my Sundays play out. I am in the process of convincing myself that acceptance is the first step to recovery — maybe if I own up to my lethargy and have a Lazy Sunday, I can at least begin my week well rested rather than disappointed in my lack of productivity.
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