The other morning I woke up at a ridiculously early hour and, unable to sleep, I did what a lot of borderline workaholics do, I got up and did some work. I puttered around the house quietly, writing emails I’d send later when it wasn’t inappropriately early to do so; I made breakfast and lunches for the day; I reviewed files; I surfed instagram; I watched a bit of TV. By the time it was ready for me to get ready for work, I was exhausted.
Then I hit the wall. I know, you’re thinking to yourself, she’s doing too much and is exhausted by it all. Well, yes, that’s true. But that’s not the wall I’m referring to. I’m talking about the wall of laundry in our bedroom. We have a daybed that’s just for laundry that’s clean but needs to be folded. It’s more of a giant pile that we wade through looking for clean underwear and matching socks.
The other morning I just wanted to find the one pair of black jeans I own. I looked for 20 minutes. And then I started to cry. Like not tearing up crying, like a sob. Almost uncontrollably. Sobbing over missing jeans. And then I got really mad, so mad that I stormed out of the bedroom with my other pair of the jeans, the ones I didn’t want.
This is how my day started and I can tell you that I wasn’t sobbing about my stupid black jeans. I was crying about getting only 5 hours of sleep and staring down a crazy day at work. I was crying about mother’s day and the fact that I don’t get to share any of my life with my mom. And I was crying from feeling overwhelmed by all the mundane, everyday stuff that I have to do just to get through one long ass week. I think I may need a day or two off before I totally snap.