Crash n’ Burn

 

This weekend demonstrated to me an important lesson in hubris. As I checked of the long-standing “to do’s” from my list, I grinned from ear to ear. “Wow!” I thought to myself. “I’m kickin’ some serious booty!” And as I tossed unnecessary stuff, organized the chaos, and gave myself some much-needed breathing room, I thought rather mistakenly, “Wow! I’m immortal! I can do anything!” But then came Monday morning.

When my hubby woke me yesterday, I felt like I had been hit by a truck. Every single muscle in my body ached. And as the cruel daylight shot in cruel beams through the window, my head throbbed with the early signs of a potential-migraine. “Oh jeebus,” I thought to myself. “If I’m gonna feel like this on a Monday morning, it should at least have involved a drunken brunch the day before!”

Getting through the day was a challenge. I hurt. I couldn’t really concentrate. And, as I summarized it to my hubby, “My ‘nurture’ qualities were at a critical low.” Despite the fact that my yoga mat is beginning to develop a protective layer of dust, I decided it would be foolish to go to the gym when my body was already prepared to give up military secrets. So… to the couch I went.

Dear 40’s. I resolved a while back that I’m not going to be one of those in-denial agers. I refuse to dye my hair some unnatural version of my younger-self color. I refuse to toxic-inject my well-earned wrinkles. I actually look forward to my rocking chair on the porch and shaking my cane at those whipper-snappers in my yard (who am I kidding, I’m doing that now!). But I did not sign up for this whole physical-limitation thang. I’m not happy about needing a bit more rest than I used to. Aches n’ pains? Well sure. I guess that only makes sense. But a spazoid A.D.D., look-oh-shiny personality like mine just doesn’t like to have to rest.

Siiiiiigh.