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.
The views expressed in the Inside Column are those of the author and not necessarily those of The Observer.
Contact Marissa Frobes at firstname.lastname@example.org