This weekend, I had the house to myself while “him indoors” was away with the Reserves doing Army things with Army types in Cardiff (talking about how great the Queen is and doing that belly crawl thing up the beer aisle in Tesco? I’m not sure).
As a bit of an introvert (while sober, at least), I always love the idea of time to myself – taking the weekend at my own pace, not feeling obliged to go anywhere or do anything, and a chance to be alone with my thoughts.
It’s that last bit that invariably kicks my plans in the knackers.
I’m the sort of person who, when given time to herself, writes a to-do list on how I’m going to relax, because that’s how super chill people like me operate. But then I worry about relaxing too much, because that’s a waste of the precious, borrowed time I get on this planet and I should be doing something with it before I stumble off the edge of this mortal coil, shouldn’t I?
But, then, I think, you’ve got to relax, haven’t you? Because stress is terrible for you and can actually kill you dead, if that Google hole I went down that one time was anything to go by, and I don’t want to be killed dead from stress.
So, to have a good weekend, I have to be productive, but not too productive, and relaxed, but not too relaxed. Easy, right? Only thing required would be to tweak that to-do list a little, yeah?
Anyway, so here’s how that kind of thinking managed to turn my plans for a couple of days to myself into a helter-skelter of existential panic. Enjoy:
- Drove home from work like Satan was chasing me in a monster truck to see Andy before he left, because am good girlfriend and good girlfriends let their boyfriends make them dinner before they disappear on two gruelling days of tabbing and saving the queen.
- The second Andy left the house, donned marigolds to do the dishes (my skin hates doing the dishes even more than I do) and angry-cleaned the house to allow for a blissful Saturday and Sunday of relaxation and gentle productivity (i.e yoga, walking the dog etc. etc.).
- After house is clean, pets march in and out of the garden in planned-looking, two animal parade, happily trailing mud behind them as they do so. Been up since half five, so by this point all fucks have left me and I assume this means the parading means I no longer need to walk the dog, so I give up and binge watch It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, which I’m extremely late to the party in discovering.
- Midnight. Dog refuses to chill out, despite prior muddy pageantry. He also refuses to let me sleep. I lovingly call him a “fucking fuck” and let him drag me round the block, where all the pub people are starting to zombie their way home to bed. Am jealous of the pub people.
- Alarm. Time to go to yoga, except don’t want to go to yoga. Spend half an hour in bed stressing about whether it’s more stressful to go to yoga when don’t want to, or to not to yoga. Decide to skip yoga because now have headache, but opt compromise and listen to Headspace app and do a meditate, to check in with how I’m feeling. Surprise answer: am feeling stressed. Such zen.
- Lunch with mum. Mercifully can’t overthink this one. Matriarchal company plus cake generally a plus.
- Shopping. Need dress for work’s Christmas do, and retail therapy etc., so will be fun.
- Is not fun. Is two hours of glaring at misshapen body in weird lighting only ever seen in dressing rooms. How do shops think horrible glare that makes people look like badly made clay figurines with fingerprints still on them will make them want to buy more clothes?! Spend majority of time in shops oscillating between thinking “waah, am gross bag of lumps!” and “Fuck society for making me feel like this and fuck shops for having multiple clothing items that are supposedly the same size, but some of them wouldn’t even fit over my big toe and others make me look like I’m wearing a pop-up tent.” Eventually landed on “This one’s shiny and fits over my head. Will purchase this one so can go home.”
- Went home, binge watched entire last series of New Girl, wept at the finale because Zooey Deschanel is excellent and deserves my tears for her efforts. Wanted a snack, but decided couldn’t eat “rubbish” on account of lumpy sack body. Got angry with diet culture again for making me feel like bag of loose spuds and proceeded to pissily eat a whole bag of oranges because…I don’t even know, but they were nice and mad me feel better.
- Alarm. Andy due back in a few hours, so decided best thing to do would be to get that blog post and workout I’d been meaning to do all weekend done.
- Opted to pack that idea in and downloaded I Feel Pretty instead because, despite all reviews I’ve read about it being problematic and no one agreeing to come and see it with me while it was at the cinema because “it looks a bit shit”, I still wanted to see it. I cry at the end. More due to previous evening’s changing room related PTSD than film’s rousing, albeit slightly naff climax.
- Andy home. Felt annoyed he’s back before I’ve started to feel suitably relaxed and “weekend-y”, and that if he’d been gone a few more hours, I’d have cracked relaxation.
- We ate McDonalds. All is now right with the world. The weekend wasn’t so bad. It’s nice to have time to yourself, isn’t it?
Becky’s final thoughts
- You can’t think yourself into relaxing. That way madness lies.
- Despite this weekend being my most slothful one in a while, I feel the opposite of chill, so I’m thinking that knackering myself out at the gym as is the norm on weekend mornings is probably the way forward. It’s hard to overthink when your brain cells are sleepy and fugged up with endorphins.
- Oranges are great. I want an orange.
Hope you all had a lovely weekend! I’m off to go relax now (help me!).