San Francisco is a lively, luminous place filled with seemingly endless opportunities to celebrate something — anything. And celebrate we do, every chance we get. We celebrate the Blue Angels atop sprawling roof decks during Fleet Week; we convene on the streets (adorned in the most outlandish garb this side of the Mississippi) to celebrate Bay to Breakers; we frolic down Market Street all the way up to the Castro in celebration of love for everyone during Pride week; and we congregate in Golden Gate Park to celebrate music brought to us by Outside Lands and Hardly Strictly. Simply put, we celebrate this magical adult playground by the bay, and we are very good at it, as evidenced by the dispirited faces that populate Muni every Monday morning.
I never truly knew the meaning of “Sunday Funday” until I moved to San Francisco nearly seven years ago. We’ve all been there: you wake up on a sunny Sunday morning to relentless bird chirps and church bells. The multicolored city is practically sparkling in the sunlight. You have every intention of not drunk-texting your ex for 24 hours — I mean, hitting up that Bikram yoga glass in the Mission you recently heard about and maybe doing a little shopping at the farmers’ market, changing your sheets and/or calling your suspicious mother and lucidly gloating about how together you are. Eight hours later, you find yourself curled up in the back of your UberPool in the fetal position, commiserating with your fellow passenger about how expensive it is to live in SF, only to get home and face-plant onto your bed and marinate in those sheets you vowed to wash earlier.
The next day you wake up groggy, fish through that unwashed duvet cover for your phone and wince as you open your text messages. The screen of your cracked iPhone 5s is glowing so bright, it’s almost offensive. You cringe as you scroll through a series of desperate outgoing texts to your ex proclaiming your undying love for him or her. You hastily delete said texts, because if you discard them, then you never really sent them, right? Up you get, surveying the myriad of contents strewn about your floor, including an empty pack of Parliament Lights, a half-eaten box of Paxti’s pizza, your keys and a rainbow tutu you somehow acquired from that new best friend you made in the Castro. Your hair has morphed into a hybrid of a Jheri curl and dreadlocks, and visions of head banging as you karaoke’d Lisa Loeb’s “Stay” at Silver Clouds merely seven hours earlier dance through your head.
And so begins your Monday. You head into work gripping your Blue Bottle coffee much like an armed soldier marching into battle. You’ve doused yourself in that awful perfume you stole from your aunt Edna (who could just as easily be your uncle Ed on account of her suspiciously pronounced Adam’s apple) in a feeble attempt to mask the potent stench of Whispering Angel seeping from your pores, strong enough to permeate the entire office.
Karen from HR walks past your cube just as you’re settling in and asks you how your weekend was. “Mellow,” you respond as you pull your sleeve over your hand in an effort to conceal the glaringly obvious Comet Club stamp you were too rushed to scrub off earlier. Does this all sound familiar? If so, don’t fret. I’ve come up with some Sunday Funday survival tips that will help you if you find yourself too wrecked to coherently respond to the 67 e-mails flooding your Outlook inbox.
1. Do drink coffee.
San Franciscans love their coffee more than Kato Kaelin loved his free room and board. There are so many brands to choose from in this pointedly caffeinated city: Blue Bottle, Philz, Peet’s, OH MY! If you can, make sure coffee is administered to your system intravenously throughout the day. You’ll need it in order to stay awake during your strained conversation about the California drought with Marcy from marketing, who always seems to be lingering around the water cooler whenever you find yourself in need of hydrating, which is often. Additionally or alternatively, you could also imbibe Pedialyte, which can help revive your system, which is likely in dire need of replenishing electrolytes.
2. Don’t inform your coworkers of your predicament.
It is imperative that you refrain from divulging the details of your Sunday shenanigans to your coworkers. As tempting as it is to rehash the mayhem, it is in your best interest to keep quiet, as you don’t want the fact that you puked all over the sidewalk outside of Zeitgeist getting back to your boss. And it will, because Glenn from accounting definitely doesn’t know how to keep his fucking mouth shut.
3. Do use humor to get yourself through the day.
I am heavily reliant on humor to get me through hard life things, of which there are plenty. A hangover at work constitutes a hard life thing, albeit a self-inflicted one. Pull a harmless prank on your IT guy, Kevin (who bragged about his run along Crissy Field at 6:00 a.m.), and have a laugh at his expense.
4. Do be resourceful.
It’s easy to become despondent when you’re within the confines of your barren gray cubicle, which is adorned with painful Post-its reminding you to complete your dickhead boss’s expense reports. Liven things up a bit by creating some semblance of friends among your office supplies.
Meet my bitchy, flat-face stapler …
And this suspicious-looking guy I made out of a paper clip and a couple of staples
5. Do pop a couple of Excedrin, the Headache Medicine.
Chelsea Handler and a lot of other reputable people swear by this shit. Apparently, it’s powerful enough to cure even the most brutal of hangovers. Warning: Excedrin has a ton of caffeine in it, so don’t take it if you suffer from anxiety.
6. Don’t go it alone.
Hop on Gchat and commiserate with your fellow delinquent friends. Chances are you’re feeling like a fragile fawn, and you need to know you’re not alone. I’ve pulled from my own Gchat archives to provide some examps (the names have been changed).
Rattled Reginald
Reginald: ugh im still painfully hungover
Me: ugh omg me too. work is AWFUL
Reginald: i don’t think i’ve been that bombed since college
Me: haha, did you take that girl home?
Reginald: Spotty memory. i woke up at her house in the mission at like 4am and went home. i’m pretty sure she had a pet snake. and I think I left my phone there. anxiety to the max!
Poor Persephone
Persephone: hi Al. i’m having issues accomplishing things today.
Me: why — can’t stop thinking about that 48 yr old?
Persephone: i’m super hungover — i shouldn’t drink as much as i do on dates and on sundays. i think you would think he was funny. we made out-ish
Me: is he a good kisser? how is he, funny? you like him, huh?
Persephone: he has a Roadrunner email address, and i was making so much fun of him for being old, and he just smiles and laughs. but he kind of has a weird laugh, like he kind of giggles. ok, i’m going to go throw up before my 1 o’clock meeting
7. Do post a filtered photo on your Instagram.
Instagram Likes are a helpful way to get through a Monday. Post a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge or a deceivingly filtered sunset, sit back and let the incoming Likes soothe you. For me, it’s like with every Like I get, I feel less cold and alone. Tell me you don’t feel the same way, and I’ll tell you your pants are on fire.
Lastly, all we really need to feel better on a brutally anxiety-ridden Monday is to be held. So find someone — anyone — and embrace that person.
