In my quest not to overdo it since the concussion I say no to things a lot, even by pandemic standards. It’s important I not get too tried and I do my best to meter out my energy carefully. But it’s hard to explain to anyone exactly what happens when I get too tired making invitations awkward to turn down.
Yesterday I got too tired but not pass out over dinner and go to bed early tired. It was a different kind of tired.
Last night I managed to flush an egg down the toilet. This is a bad idea. Plungers were required. I laughed about it.
I also licked my phone. This is a bad idea for obvious reasons that get more obvious mid-pandemic. I laughed until I cried wondering what I had just done.
Then I laughed hysterically about everything the rest of the night.
When I tried to put the girls to bed they looked at me and made up public service announcements about why you should avoid concussions and delivered them in poor Scottish accents while I howled and tears poured down my face.
I was too tired.
This morning I have rested and eggs went in proper places and I’ve brushed my teeth three times thinking about the phone tongue incident. I still have no idea how to describe what happens in my head when I get too tired nor do I know what kind of too tired will hit me next.
Even when I’m not tired it makes it tricky to respond to those invitations. “Sorry, I can’t come to your bonfire. I may flush an egg down the toilet.” Is probably the worst way to get someone to believe that you have a legitimate reason not to attend but, “Sorry, I’m too tired.” doesn’t quite catch the gist of the situation.
Fortunately my friends are understanding and I help insure life around here is never boring!
Our little rooster got in a fight with what I can only figure from his injuries was the loony toons boxing kangaroo. He’s convalescingin our shower with his lady friend until he stops seeing stars. In the meantime be you should all be grateful for social distancing!
I drink my water out of quart mason jars and litter them in my wake.
I fill them and lose them only to find them on counters and desks, on stools and the floor near the couch or the window by the bed.
This trail of water means that I occasionally have to deal with a kicked over quart of water (a thing that is only helpful if you were hoping to mop the floor anyway, which I never am). But this also means I never have to go searching for a watering can (a thing that my plants would appreciate, but I never think to do).
So in the end my water jars keep me hydrated, spot clean the floor and water the plants. Not bad for a forgetful habit enacted by a messy woman.
I used to start my day with a cup of tea. Or four.
I liked it black and steeped until the astringent liquid would hit my tongue and jolt me into wakefulness.
I liked it hot in my hands before it was cool enough to drink.
I slopped it over the sides of my tea cup on the way down the driveway in the morning and figured the wet pants were a small price to pay.
I had extra cups on cold winter days and slow days and sad days and grumpy days. I had extra cups in celebration of warm mornings and happy occasions and book reading afternoons.
I always used to start my day with a cup of tea, or six.
But now… having become fairly intolerant of excessive amounts of caffeine, I start my day with a cup of Mud.
MUD/WTR, as it is officially known, is lovely in a chocolaty dirt sort of way. I drink it with a bit of honey and milk. It’s warm and soothing and the bottom of the cup always contains an extra layer of gritty bitter sediment that if I close my eyes and squint as I knock the last bit back, I can almost pretend is akin to the tang of tea.
My morning mud is filled with mushrooms and turmeric and other things that are supposed to be great for me and most importantly just a smidgen of caffeine.
Nowadays tea gives me the attention span of a rabid squirrel with ADD if consumed in any amount that seems proper. Mud is like getting a warm hug in the morning and I’ve grown to love that hug (I’m big on hugs lately).
I used to start my day with a cup of tea or eight.
I’m no stranger to pulling my own cookies out of the pantry. Grown ass woman that I am, not only can I help myself to cookies, I have been known to bake a batch (okay, a double batch) of cookies just because I wanted one.
But just because I can do it, doesn’t mean my grumpy heart doesn’t melt when my husband pulls out a tiny mug of milk and two cookies for us to share.