It’s been one of those weeks.
Living on meals of caffeine and burgers, getting little sleep.
And when the possibility of getting a normal amount of rest is within reach, your mind decides to run a marathon through every thought that’s ever been contemplated in the history of your life.
It’s been a week of high stress and low patience.
Even writing this column is taking a strength I didn’t know I have.
(And it’s being done without caffeine after witnessing my coffee maker explode from trying to brew another cup. I may or may not have put one too many scoops of grounds in the filter. Whoops.)
But truthfully it’s a stress that’s self-inflicted. I acknowledge it but can’t stop it.
I’m a to-do list maker.
And right now I have three of them.
One for work, one for chores and one for planning.
Usually, these lists give me comfort — a way to take the thoughts fighting for attention in my mind and force them out onto paper, leaving me clearheaded to focus on one task at a time.
But this week my lists are haunting me.
With a dirty home, a website that needs to be updated, vacation photographs that need to be edited on top of all of the miscellaneous things such as scheduling doctor appointments and getting my car worked on, my mind is thinking too much and not at all.
Focus is what I need, but when I break down my lists to begin just one of its items, my mind thinks of 10 more things to add or tempts me with thoughts of my comfortable bed.
Oh, what a dizzying dance, dear brain.
This week I was planning to write an in-depth column about “The Sociology of Sorry”, an article I recently read from The Atlantic discussing how the phrase “I’m sorry” is used in modern culture compared to its original intent.
Doesn’t that sound interesting?
(Even if you don’t think so, just imagine — it has to be better than what you’re reading right now.)
So we’re all agreed it was going to be spectacular, basically an award winner.
But instead, my mind has betrayed me with thoughts of my fluffy pillows and blankie waiting in another room. I’ve become weak to its pull.
Like a moth to a flame.
So I have failed you readers.
I have no witty or thought provoking or uplifting piece of literature to grant you.
It’s merely the ramblings of a woman trying to fill space in a newspaper because it's her weekly task to do so, showing you that she too is human and powerless to a comfy bed after an exhausting day.
But it’s just been one of those weeks.