Ah, Sunday. The day I solemnly swear to “sleep in,” only to find myself wide awake at 6:42 a.m., staring at the ceiling like it owes me rent money. My brain, ever the overachiever, is already conducting a preemptive staff meeting about the week ahead  complete with action items, existential dread, and a side of caffeine dependency.

Tomorrow is supposed to be my day of rest. A sacred time to take things in, let the chaos simmer down, and theoretically chillax. Except my version of chillaxing looks a lot like strategic war planning. I scan the battlefield (a.k.a. my inbox, my fridge, my to-do list) and assess: What fires must I put out before Monday’s inferno? What leftovers can I transform into a meal of questionable nutritional value but undeniable comfort?

Then comes the ritual.  Coffee which is the the dark elixir that convinces me I can handle life. Maybe two cups. Maybe three. I might even eat something with zero intention of sharing. I’ll scroll my phone for a hot second before declaring, dramatically, that I’m “putting it away” to live in the moment.  Though, let’s be honest, the phone will boomerang back by mid-afternoon like a needy ex.

My goal? To steel myself like a battering ram. Ready for whatever bureaucratic nonsense, emotional curveballs, or surprise “urgent” meetings await. But before that, I’ll watch some gloriously bad TV that asks nothing of me except my judgment. That’s the sweet spot of a Sunday. The illusion of rest wrapped in preparation, tied together with crumbs of leftover pizza.

So tomorrow, I’ll do what I always do. I will pretend to relax while secretly psyching myself up to conquer the week. Maybe I won’t sleep in. But I’ll sip my coffee, take a deep breath, and whisper my mantra into the void: “Let life happen, but let it quietly happen please “