I woke up this morning to the drone of pounding rain. Thanks to all the snow we had this winter, and the severity of this storm system, they’re predicting New England will be experiencing some of the worst flooding it’s had in years.
Then again, “a whole heckuva lotta rain” or even “moderate flooding” probably doesn’t make for a very sensational news story.
Regardless; I am not worried about washing away. The way I see it (and how exactly is that, you ask? Why, through my half-empty glass, of course!), that would be sort of calm and peaceful. And entirely unlike the day I have planned.
Last night, I came home and relaxed. I read a book in the tub until the water grew tepid. I ate chips and salsa for dinner because I was alone and I could and I didn’t feel like cooking. I considered tending to some Things That Need To Be Done and decided that, no, I was just going to take it easy. Which was just as well, because I fell asleep at 9:30.
I am a wild one, I tell you.
I get about 6 hours of sleep a night most of the time, which would be just perfect if I was 2/3 of the person I am. What it means in reality, of course, is that on the one night every two weeks when I can sleep as long as I want to, my body burrows deep into slumber and doesn’t emerge for about 11 hours. When I wake up, I am bleary and disoriented and in caffeine withdrawal and wracked with guilt over having sacrificed precious child-free hours for something as frivolous as sleep.
Exhaustion is insidious. You’ve heard of African Sleeping Sickness? This is sleep poisoning. Sort of the same thing except completely different. Shut up.
Now I have to plot out the day; I have to find a way to accomplish everything that hasn’t been done in the last two weeks, as well as trying to get a jump on the things I won’t be able to accomplish in the next two weeks. As about half of these tasks are errands, I cannot fully express my joy about the driving rain.
I’ll get some of it done. I won’t get all of it done; I never do. And in the meantime–as I move to the relentless beat of the storm while it strikes the windows and the roof and burbles down the drainpipes with a repetitive “glug glug”–I will flit from here to there and back again, trying to keep my hands and feet busy enough to silence my mind.
Because it feels like marking time. It didn’t used to. Some of what’s changed was deliberate and some of it just happened; regardless, I’m left wishing Socrates was still alive so that I could have the chance to punch him in the face (okay, FINE, it’s unlikely that I would REALLY do that… but I would totally snark about his haircut and tell everyone he has bad breath). “An unexamined life is not worth living,” my ass. The examined life is no picnic, pal. The examined life is rife with regrets and poor judgement and guilt and a to-do list that’s miles long and meaningless.
I’m not where I want to be, and nothing I have to do today will take me closer to shore. I just keep paddling out further and further, treading water as long as I can, and then floating for a while when I get tired. Sometimes it’s pleasant, sure. Sometimes I surrender for a while and it’s actually peaceful. And then sometimes the rain pelts down and it’s cold and lonely and the futility is overwhelming.
I have got to stop sleeping in.