It is evening here in Boston. My hair is standing straight up. I can barely form a coherent sentence and just kind of grunt at A. as he reads from this month’s This Old House magazine. (A: Here are instructions on how to build a bar! I think we should try this!” Me: “[inchorent mumbling]…wait, WHAT?”)

I have a case of The Mondays.

Unfortunately, this happens every week and has happened for years. Every Sunday night, I start off with the best of intentions. Lunches are made, teeth are brushed, dog is walked, and I curl up in bed with a good book at a respectable, if not earlyish hour. I read for an hour or so, enjoying the quiet. A. goes to sleep, my eyes get heavy, the dog is crated, I turn off the light, sigh, curl up, and then I wake up. I wish I could explain it, but I start to think of everything I need to do at work, upcoming projects, and then I concentrate on the snoring emanating from Gatsby’s crate. Inhale, 2, 3, 4, and then exhale, 2, 3, 4, in between rounds of figuring out what projects do I need to move forward on at work, and that I found another two gray hairs on my head, and should I start to dye my hair? I don’t think there is something called “natural gray” for me. This goes on, and I can’t seem to quiet my mind. By the time it’s morning, I barely have slept, and I stumble to the shower to start my day.

By the time I get home from work, I am grumpy, tired, and the idea of having to cook dinner (even if I did plan ahead) is daunting. A. will often offer to cook as I zone out.

I eat right, I practice yoga and hippie thinking mindful meditation. I keep a notepad next to my bed so I can write down what is stressing me out. However, this doesn’t do a damn thing. It seems as if I am the poster child for Xanax, or at least a good glass of single malt before bed.

I am thirty-something years old. I have no children (could you imagine the extra stress that would bring for me?), a healthy happy husband, a job I love, a great (albeit fixer-upper) house, a fabulous dog, and yet I lie awake every Sunday night thinking of everything that needs to get done. How do people do it? How do you get to the point of being able to lay down in bed, curl up, close your eyes, and get ready for the week? I wish I knew, but I can guarantee I will be trying to figure it out, hopefully by the time I reach my forties, because then that adds a whole new level of stress.

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