Long weekends suck when they end. Truly.
I have had a rough couple of months finishing up school and with changes
going on at work, and I hit the wall big time over Memorial Day weekend.
I try to do some stuff over the weekend, but the weather
totally blows. Then there is the whole
battle with the crapping inch worms. Friday
night I sleep pretty well. Saturday night
and Sunday night -- I sleep better than I have in a long time. I sleep nine hours each night for two
straight nights.
Then comes Monday night.
Monday night, the eve before returning to work after the extended
holiday weekend.
Monday. Night.
You bastard.
I am certainly tired enough, dozing off while reading a book
and half-watching the hockey game. I
finally get into bed around 10:30, figuring this will be late enough to pull
another decent (but not nine-hour) sleep.
It starts out well enough -- I don't flop around too much. I have the window open, the fan on, and
layers of bedding to kick off or pull on as my body sees fit.
Then 1:30 a.m. arrives, and I awaken, but not for long. Then 3:00 (The Witching Hour) arrives. I trek to the bathroom then back up to bed,
fully expecting to doze off again. So I
wait. And I wait some more. Then I toss, turn, and try to get comfortable. For some reason, my mind is going a mile a minute
about random shit that doesn't matter now, won't matter tomorrow, never will
matter. I will not even remember hours
later what is occupying my brain at this hour.
It takes me until about 4:15 to fall back asleep. At 5:17 a.m., the alarm goes off. I semi-watch the weather report, flick the
channels as if I might actually watch something at 5:30 in the morning, which,
surprisingly, happens more often than I care to admit. By the time I roll downstairs to start my
day, it is 5:45.
Everything seems to be going well, too. I'm not rested like I was over the weekend,
but I've probably slept enough.
Right? Five-plus hours isn't
bad. It's my usual, anyway, and I've
done worse. I once slept nineteen hours
over seven days and lived to tell the convoluted tale. Decades ago I worked third shift and often
went days without real sleep. I raised
three babies through childhood diseases to young-adulthood. Who amongst us has not pulled an all-nighter
or two or three or more under similar conditions?
Then I make the near-fatal mistake. I peer at myself in the mirror.
Being kind to myself, I'll admit that I look like I've gone
a few rounds with a prize fighter. (Being
kind, of course.) My eyes are puffy, the
skin under my lower lids sags bluish-red, and I have hollow marks on my
cheeks. I resemble a cross between a
street brawl reject and someone having a severe allergic reaction.
Maybe I'm allergic to my job. Maybe I'm allergic to my life.
An hour, a shower, and lots of make-up later, I am able to
leave the house and get to work, but most of the day is spent worrying that my
eyeballs might fall out of their sockets and roll under my desk where I cannot
reach them. Not shocking, though, is the
fact that all of my colleagues look the same as I do and share similar tales.
"I couldn't sleep last night…" A common theme in the hallways.
As the students arrive, they, too, complain about being
restless and not sleeping Monday night.
Maybe the Cosmos are off-kilter. Maybe it's the lousy un-pre-summer weather we
are experiencing. Maybe it's general
malaise. Maybe we all really are
allergic to school.
I'll try it again tonight.
I'll attempt to sleep and see how it goes. It may be another night of interruptions and
restless thoughts. Perhaps there's
another wall to hit in my near future.
Either way, just like today, I have to hit the ground running and
pretend I'm functioning, but if you happen to be near my classroom, bring me
some new toothpicks. The ones I have
propping my eyes open right now could use replacing, and I'm too tired to get
up and change them myself.
