On Saturday, I finished a major task two whole days before the deadline. And while the length of my to-do list is still so long that I have to remind myself to breathe every time I unfold it, I decided that I would take Sunday off. So instead of muddling through a problem set or reading papers, I cooked a fancy dinner and played board games with my roommate (J) and his girlfriend (C). I made a turkey for the first time (resounding success), learned from C that English breakfast tea is better with whipped cream, got my ass kicked at Settlers of Catan by J (damned robber on my 6 the whole game!), learned how to play Tigris and Euphrates then promptly demolished J & C, had a seriously funny (funnily serious?) argument about mashed potato classification, and in general had an awesome day. I went to bed more relaxed and happier than I’ve been in weeks.

But I went to bed 2 hours later than usual. We were partway through Tigris and Euphrates when my alarm went off, reminding me that my inflexible bedtime was fast approaching. I switched off the alarm, intending to play for another half hour and call it a night. But the game was fun and the company funny and I lost track of time. So instead of having a quick breakfast at 6am while skimming some reading for class, I was inching across the kitchen weighing the energy benefits of a piece of toast versus the risk of vomiting. Instead of catching the bus at 7am, I was rubbing tiger balm into neck muscles seizing from the pain in my skull. Instead of having the confusing reading made clear in class at 9am, I was sitting on the kitchen floor, room spinning, after getting overambitious and trying to unload the dishwasher.

I’m angry because my fun day resulted in an awful today and a difficult rest of the week. I feel guilty because I could have prevented this so easily.