Eagle-eyed, loyal readers (all two of you) will have noticed I went two (gasp!) weeks in a row without a blog entry. I have a perfectly reasonable excuse, however. I’m tired.
Not just your regular “I’ve been writing a blog every week for nine years now, and a weekly humor column for about seven years before that” tired. This is more of a “I’m adjusting to my work schedule, I had surgery and as a result nobody has cleaned the house since November, and I can’t remember where I live half the time, much less which day my blog is due” tired.
Think I’m kidding? I’ve resorted to counting the days by bananas. See, I buy five bananas over the weekend, one for my lunch each day of the week. (Side note: yes, Mom, I’m eating more than a banana for lunch. That’s just part of my lunch.) Then, when Jason asks, “Is today Thursday?” I can look over at the banana bunch hanging from the fruit basket, mentally count two bananas left, and reply, “No, I think it’s Wednesday.” Then we turn on the TV to watch Survivor, only to realize it’s not on during the summer. (I’m not the only one having a hard time keeping track of time.)
When I get home from work, after making dinner, I’ve taken to slowly cleaning the house. And I do mean slowly. I’ve started from the bottom up, and I only have one fourth of one half of the basement clean and organized so far. (To be honest, that estimation might be generous.) Though in the past I’ve had the mindset of “I must clean everything from top to bottom, even if it takes all night!” my body is still healing, and I have neither the strength nor the endurance to do more than say, one basement shelf a night. Because I’m tired.
With this new exhaustion, which I’m not used to and am entirely unsatisfied with, has come the lack of energy to write. This is the most unnerving thing of my new daily pattern. I used to have to write, unable to calm the jumble of thoughts and ideas and feelings and snippets in my brain unless I got them all out on paper. Now I have to sleep. Please. Just eight precious hours, Mr. Sandman—I’m begging you.
(Here, my best writing friend will argue that I am writing: he and I are collaborating on a story. But while in the past I would’ve gotten my entry done and back to him within a day or so, now it takes me a week to shoot him a thousand words. He will say that at least that’s something. Which is true, I suppose. But not what I’m used to.)
The good news is, I’m reading like crazy. Just this week, I’ve read Dark Places by Gillian Flynn (which I recommend), The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald (meh), and The Princess Diarist by Carrie Fisher (which made me sad she’s gone). I’m now elbows-deep in Sarah Waters’s The Paying Guests, and according to my banana calendar, it’s only Thursday.
But Stacey, you might ask, if you have time to read, don’t you have time to write?
Here’s the thing: if I nod off while writing, my laptop will slide off my belly when I roll over, and possibly break. The cats will take my snoring as a signal that it’s time for a computer-cord-chewing free-for-all. Plus I run the risk of losing the document I’m working on during this melee I’m sleeping through. But if I’m reading, the paperback slides gently to the floor, possibly thunking one of the cats on the head softly as it descends, and nobody is the worse for wear. No laptops and cords will need replacing. No documents lost. Maybe a bent page or two and a scramble the next day to try and find the last scene I remember before drifting off. I can live with that.
Because nodding off is going to happen. I’m tired.
Not just your regular “I’ve been writing a blog every week for nine years now, and a weekly humor column for about seven years before that” tired. This is more of a “I’m adjusting to my work schedule, I had surgery and as a result nobody has cleaned the house since November, and I can’t remember where I live half the time, much less which day my blog is due” tired.
Think I’m kidding? I’ve resorted to counting the days by bananas. See, I buy five bananas over the weekend, one for my lunch each day of the week. (Side note: yes, Mom, I’m eating more than a banana for lunch. That’s just part of my lunch.) Then, when Jason asks, “Is today Thursday?” I can look over at the banana bunch hanging from the fruit basket, mentally count two bananas left, and reply, “No, I think it’s Wednesday.” Then we turn on the TV to watch Survivor, only to realize it’s not on during the summer. (I’m not the only one having a hard time keeping track of time.)
When I get home from work, after making dinner, I’ve taken to slowly cleaning the house. And I do mean slowly. I’ve started from the bottom up, and I only have one fourth of one half of the basement clean and organized so far. (To be honest, that estimation might be generous.) Though in the past I’ve had the mindset of “I must clean everything from top to bottom, even if it takes all night!” my body is still healing, and I have neither the strength nor the endurance to do more than say, one basement shelf a night. Because I’m tired.
With this new exhaustion, which I’m not used to and am entirely unsatisfied with, has come the lack of energy to write. This is the most unnerving thing of my new daily pattern. I used to have to write, unable to calm the jumble of thoughts and ideas and feelings and snippets in my brain unless I got them all out on paper. Now I have to sleep. Please. Just eight precious hours, Mr. Sandman—I’m begging you.
(Here, my best writing friend will argue that I am writing: he and I are collaborating on a story. But while in the past I would’ve gotten my entry done and back to him within a day or so, now it takes me a week to shoot him a thousand words. He will say that at least that’s something. Which is true, I suppose. But not what I’m used to.)
The good news is, I’m reading like crazy. Just this week, I’ve read Dark Places by Gillian Flynn (which I recommend), The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald (meh), and The Princess Diarist by Carrie Fisher (which made me sad she’s gone). I’m now elbows-deep in Sarah Waters’s The Paying Guests, and according to my banana calendar, it’s only Thursday.
But Stacey, you might ask, if you have time to read, don’t you have time to write?
Here’s the thing: if I nod off while writing, my laptop will slide off my belly when I roll over, and possibly break. The cats will take my snoring as a signal that it’s time for a computer-cord-chewing free-for-all. Plus I run the risk of losing the document I’m working on during this melee I’m sleeping through. But if I’m reading, the paperback slides gently to the floor, possibly thunking one of the cats on the head softly as it descends, and nobody is the worse for wear. No laptops and cords will need replacing. No documents lost. Maybe a bent page or two and a scramble the next day to try and find the last scene I remember before drifting off. I can live with that.
Because nodding off is going to happen. I’m tired.
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