I helped my brother- and sister-in-law move house yesterday. It wasn’t a big move, in the grand scheme of things: they only moved about ten minutes away from where they had been living. But even then the heat, my lack of sleep the night before, and the general chaos that comes from moving added together until all I wanted was my own home and my own bed.
I stayed up until about 11, trying valiantly to at least read before bed, but I crashed. Tomorrow, I reasoned, I will get caught up on life.
Cue tomorrow, which was today, and I did…nothing.
I slept until two by mistake; I meant to get up at nine. I think my body was playing catch-up. I woke with a bitch of a headache. I stared at the internet for a while, I stared at the tv. I wanted to work on my sweater, on my writing. I meant to polish a new story today. It didn’t happen. Nothing happened. I spent the day in a sleep-hangover(sleepover?)-induced fog.
I guess it’s not a bad thing to waste a day here and there. But I’m not that person. I’m not happy unless I’m creating, or making, or learning. So today was a write-off, and now I’m grumpy.
I think I’ve forgotten how to relax.
sniderwriter 