Instant Analysis: The 8 Stages Of Your Sunday Anxiety

By Sunday Scaries

When you're livin' the blog life, sometimes you read something and just know you gotta drop everything and respond accordingly. For me, this first happened with the Fall Girlfriends. Today, it happened with my internet bro Brian from Post Grad Problems.

As always, original article in italics.

When it comes to days of the week, Sundays are the best and the worst. Hopefully you woke up at a decent hour and didn’t spend the day languishing in bed, marinating in the sins of a weekend that flew by. Sundays don’t follow normal human operating procedure. Meals don’t have set times. You’ll eat when you want to eat. The slate is clean. You don’t have to go anywhere. But the blissful ignorance of Sunday soon comes crashing down as you start watching the hours and minutes melt off of the clock and Monday starts rustling from its deep slumber.

Welcome to the horrifying reality of Sunday anxiety. It washes over you in eight stages.

Brian, Brian, Brian, Brian. Let's just get this proverbial elephant out of the room and say what we're all thinking: they're clearly called the "Sunday Scaries" and not "Sunday Anxiety." It's alright, bro. You ain't steppin' on any toes or breakin' any copyright laws by using it. Would you have rained on my SEO parade because Post Grad Problems' readership probably dominates mine in volume? Yeah, you probably would have. So actually, fuck it. Allow me to thank you, Brian. You look out for the little guy and I respect that.


No alarm clock, but your biological clock starts ringing any time from 7 a.m. to 9 a.m. You are fully awake at this point, but it’s Sunday. Roll over and fall back asleep. Yeah, you’re a touch hungover, but it’s Sunday. You have a full day to do as you please. There’s nothing to be done except maybe some laundry. Laundry is a passive activity. Maybe I’ll throw a non-discrimitory, heaping pile of clothes into the machine and pick clothes out of the dryer whenever I need them. Maybe I’ll hook up with some friends for brunch, and maybe I won’t put on pants until the sun starts to set. There’s all the time in the world.

If anyone knows how I operate on Sundays, pretty-pretty sure "bliss" isn't an attribute commonly associated with me. But I respect your "glass half full" attitude, Brian. Yesterday, I woke up in an Eames chair with no pants on while season 1 of Friday Night Lights was BLASTING on my friend's 56" television. I was sharing a comforter with the person in the matching Eames chair next to me. And my phone? Face down on the ground. After I stress-ate an everything bagel and burned my tongue on a 16 ounce Americano, my day actually started looking up.


It is now two in the afternoon and you’ve slept away half of the day. What happened while you were sleeping? Good Lord, you missed the entire first half of your NFL team’s game. You forgot to set your fantasy team’s lineup and there’s no way in hell Martellus Bennett can save your ass on Monday Night Football. What else might have you missed? Did your mom call? Shit. She did. Did your boss email you? No, but maybe he wanted to. Just sleeping precious life away. OH GOD, WHAT HAVE I MISSED?

While I concur that Worry is, in fact, a pillar of Sunday Scaries, I cross this river for different reasons. Sometime around 2011, my friends began referring to themselves as "Hybrid Humans" who don't require naps because, "naps are for dweebs." Because I do literally anything my friends tell me to do and I love peer pressure, I haven't napped since September '11. Ergo, I never miss first halves of Lions games.

My "Worry" that stems from "what happened" is normally from that period of time between when I leave the bar and hit the sheets. It doesn't matter if I'm with a pizza, a girl, or a bro squadron -- once I resolve myself to going to bed, the hamster keeps running but the lights turn the fuck off. Can't explain it and often regret it, but that's just the way it is.

And, just a little fun story for the road, I had this same feeling last Monday after I took an Ambien on Sunday night and woke up Monday morning to a series of texts on my phone that I don't remember sending. Did I text the girl I'm currently courting, "I like you"? Yeah, maybe I did. Does Sunday Scaries need to clean it up and rein it in a bit? Yeah, he probably does.


Son of a bitch. Feeling like such an idiot. No way in hell you’re falling asleep before two in the morning tonight. Probably should have set an alarm for 11 just to be safe, but you didn’t. You wanted that precious sleep. Didn’t even get in a full REM cycle. Everything closes at five on Sunday. Are all of your friends doing cool shit without you? No missed calls, but still. They probably knew you were being a piece of human garbage and decided to not invite you to brunch and a movie. That would’ve really hit the spot. Such an idiot. Netflix, NFL Red Zone, and self-loathing it is.

The eternal struggle of Sundays revolves around falling asleep. You're at that point where you know you need the sleep more than ever, but you're either shaking with regret or you're trying to hold on to that last bit of the weekend so you don't have to admit that it's actually over.

When it comes to the whole, "I wonder what everyone is doing right now" stage, I usually look somewhat like this.

When the anxiety hits, you have to live by the Old Man Body Scaries mantra: "If we’re all Scared collectively, we’re less Scared individually." Camaraderie is key, Brian, but I'm going to assume you know this because my deductions tell me you crushed frat life which I respect the hell out of.


Food. Can’t screw that up. Sustenance will stave off the crippling anxiety that is beginning to mount and will probably get those shakes under control. Food that can be delivered is preferable, but four dollars in delivery fees? Is that really what convenience costs these days? Domino’s has that four dollar carryout special, but that requires you to put on real clothes and possibly shower. You better just sit there and think about how much you want food instead of doing anything about acquiring said food.

Last night, I went to the grocery store and bought $24 worth of cheese, meat, and crackers to set up a SOLID spread for the Lions game. It ended with me falling asleep with crumbs on my Michigan crewneck and having a puffy face from all the salt in the meat. And what did I do today? Packed the rest of it and made a appetizer spread on my desk for lunch. Underrated move of the fuckin' century.

Reverse Hunger

Have you ever been so hungry that you’re nauseous? Have you ever been so hungry that you’ll literally eat anything, even Long John Silvers? Have you ever been so hungry that the sheer thought of the aftermath of consuming Long John Silvers makes you want to hurl the contents of last night’s drunk food binge onto your coffee table? Then you have reverse hunger. You are so hungry that your body is mad at itself for not consuming food for so long that it is rejecting the sheer notion of nurishment. What an asshole.

People don't understand me when I tell them that I can't eat with a hangover. Like, they fundamentally don't get it and accuse me of being a psycho. After a long night of partying on Mackinac Island, my buddy Tube Socks and I went out to breakfast while everyone else picked up the hotel rooms. I ordered a piddly bowl of Frosted Flakes and a gin and tonic. While Tube Socks knew this was business as usual, the waitress didn't feel tooootally impressed with me.

Oh, and I was also wearing a captain's hat at brunch as well. Just really channeling my inner-Scott Disick.

Real Hunger

The time has come. The standoff between your stomach, your body, and your wallet has come to an end. You need food or else you will die. That is a basic fact of life. Now, how much nutrition value that food has is neither here or there–you just need a food baby. Order a ten dollar Dinner Box from Pizza Hut and resign yourself to the humiliation and contrition that comes with consuming the entire thing throughout the course of the day. You have vanquished your hunger with a mighty blow. Delicious processed meat and plastic cheese have won the day. You are now free from the bondage of hunger.

I'm weird in that I don't get truly hungry when I'm rockin' a solid hangy. Apps go far enough for me and actual meals put me in a deep pit of despair. Last Thanksgiving, I was sad and alone on the ski hill while all my friends drove back to their respective hell-hole cities. Thinking my intense holiday would be cured by some curly fries and a beer, I indulged HARD. It ended with me puking off the chairlift, with that being the only time I've ever actually thrown up when I'm hungover.

Scaries life, man. Love it or leave it.


You have slaked your body’s thirst for food and everything is okay now. But it isn’t, because it’s 7 p.m. and the most you’ve accomplished today is 30 seconds of human interaction with the overly inquisitive pizza delivery boy. Bang up job. Precious seconds tick off the clock. Your Sunday night television viewing schedule does enough to distract you, but at the same time, when it’s all said and done, it’s 10 p.m. and you have to be up for work in roughly eight hours. You didn’t even have time to wind down from your long day of doing absolutely jack. The weight of having to be back at your job begins to crush your soul and you begin to break. Your world is spiraling out of control. Abandon all hope. You might not sleep tonight. You are going to die some day. You will not see the light of morning. All is lost.

You know Malcolm Gladwell's "10,000-Hour Rule" where the key to success in any field is, to a large extent, a matter of practicing a specific task for a total of around 10,000 hours? That's the Panic stage for me, Brian, and I'm legit a little hurt you didn't come to me about this. You're just straight up not going to find a better Sunday Scaries expert than who's right in front of you. I mean, for God's sake, Brian, I call my bedroom "The Panic Room" where I burn a scented candle, watch Sunday Night Football on mute, and float in and out of consciousness. Last night I listened to John Mayer's version of "I'm On Fire" thirty times in a row.

When you just read, "I listened to John Mayer's version of 'I'm On Fire' thirty times in a row," you read it as "Sunday Scaries listened to that song a couple times." Go back, read it literally, and realize that I literally listened to it thirty times in a row.

Just call me next time you decide to write about panicking on Sundays, Brian. Not asking much here.


You fall asleep halfway through an episode of “The Office.” It is done. Another Sunday has come and gone. You submitted to its cruelty and fleeting bliss. The weekend was over in the blink of an eye and you awoke from your dream state with your alarm blasting. Can’t wait to do it again next week.

And with the arrival of Monday comes the charade that we all put ourselves through as we walk into work:

Wouldn't trade this life for the world.