Days Like These: Fatigue Failure.

The most emo looking selfie I've taken since 2005.

The most emo looking selfie I’ve taken since 2005.

So this is what my day is like today: I wake up and I know that no matter what I do today—no matter what I accomplish, or how grand my goals are—I have to do one thing.

I need to buy dog food.

And maybe some bread.

And after a good deep-breathing session, definitely some air fresheners.

But I’m having a rough week. My energy is just non-existent and so I know I’ve got to really budget my spoons today—which is okay, because I have a pretty low-impact work day with really only one or two clients and no meetings that I have to pretend to be awake for.

So I get dressed, I do my hair, I fold the laundry and I sit on the top stairs for ten minutes before finally summoning the energy to go down them. I eat a banana because there is nothing else edible in my kitchen besides cotton candy. I feed Happy whatever dregs of kibble are left in the container.

And then I get in my car and I go to the pet store and I picked the only flavor of the only brand of food that I can get him to eat without getting sick and I lug it across the store, to the counter and I try to exert as little energy as possible while swiping my credit card through the machine. Then I throw the food in my trunk and settle into my car again—luxuriating in how nice it is to not move for a few minutes.

Then I drive to the other end of the plaza to Publix.

And I get out and I’m already practically sweating as I walk through the aisles getting Pillsbury cinnamon rolls (that R.J and I are now obsessed with cooking perfectly) and more powerade (because you can’t ever have enough Powerade) and dishwasher detergent.

And then I wait an endless seven minutes for the woman in front of me in line to load and check out her stuff before I start loading mine. And by the time I get back in the car I have to sit and rest my head on the steering wheel and try to focus my eyes into seeing only one set of keys instead of three.

By 11:45—I am done. I’m able to sit very still on the couch the rest of the day, typing and blogging and editing and taking calls. But I’m bleary eyed and functioning at about a 4%.

During that time I secured an interview with a major celebrity mom, wrote a proposal for a new client, edited, added and even wrote some new blog posts for Global Genes and outlined a press release that was insanely boring.

And none of that bothered me—I mean the functioning at 4% thing because most days I’m there by  5:00 and that’s that.

It wasn’t really until 5:00 that I actually started feeling depressed about my low energy level. I’d been doing so well with the gym and was finally starting to see some progress-but this week I haven’t been able to go even once. And all day I was wrestling with myself saying

I’ll go to the gym and just do the treadmill for fifteen minutes, the hand weights and the crunches bar.

I’ll go the gym and just do the hand weights and the crunches bar.

I’ll go to the gym and just do the crunches bar.

And then I was sitting on my living room floor between my coffee table and my loveseat trying to do crunches before I realized that if I even did one—I would be stuck on the floor for an hour, with no energy to get myself back up.

And so while R.J went to the gym as he does every day after working a 9-5 job with a little college bio chemistry lab thrown in—I took a half an hour to gather myself and approach the staircase and then sat in my bathtub, trying to remember what limbs I’d already washed.

Then there’s nothing left to feel but guilty that I’m not a more energetic worker or girlfriend or pet owner. That my stomach will remain flabby because I can’t get to the gym to do the fucking crunches bar and that there’s no more body wash because I couldn’t make it to Harmon (at Bed Bath and Beyond in West Boca where I buy all of my bath stuff for cheap) because it was too far away, because I didn’t trust myself in this flimsy state to drive across town.

Guilty, that I’ll have to hand R.J a shopping list instead of going out to dinner with him. Guilty, because by the time he gets home–I’ll already be in my pajamas half-asleep in our bed.

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