Last night Mrs. G. lay awake considering all the goals she should set for herself. Whenever Mrs. G. sets goals for herself they usually take the form of self-improvement. There is something about Sunday nights that slyly coerce her into taking a self inventory of her cerebral larder and she inevitably comes up short of fundamental, crucial staples: bread, eggs, milk, Oreos. Metaphorically, she lacks the essential ingredients of a bestelling, prosperous life.
Of course Mrs. G's heart skirmishes with her brain, calling bullshit on Sunday night and it's attending deliberations. She tossed, she turned, she flipped her pillow for the cool, cotton relief, she journaled, she read and, finally, she played her river card: a guided sleep meditation on YouTube where an Australian guy lulls her to relaxation, ocean waves lapping the shore in the distance. She fell asleep, her pantry fully stocked.
Take that, Sunday.