There are weeks where I’m feeling quite gung-ho about vigilance, justice, and general pants-putting-on-itude.
See if you can guess if this has been one of those weeks.
Recently, I’ve done this:
Watched The Entire Twilight Series. Oh, not so bad, you say? What if I tell you I started the first one on a weeknight when P.J. was out, mainlined the second while he was snoring in bed beside me mere hours later, demolished the third one in ten-minute increments throughout the next morning, made short work of the fourth while preparing lunch and sending emails, and hated myself through the fifth while the “children played.” I literally have no idea where they were.
I don’t know why I did this. It started out with, “I can’t watch this- Bella needs to grow a pair,” and morphed into “Jesus, Jacob, give her some space. Can she have your testosterone?” And then it was all “well, I can’t leave now, the family has been through so much.” (Not mine, mind you. If you remember, I couldn’t have thumbtacked them on a Day-Glo map.) And then it just became…like eating a bowl full of straight sugar. Terrible. Don’t you feel your brain atrophying? Why are you dipping your spoon? Why are you still dipping your spoon? …Can I have some?
The weirdest part of this whole Twilight bender is that P.J. had zero idea I was squirreling away these films.
I’m actually kind of angry at him, now that I think about it.
Didn’t Eat Sugar. Speaking of weird parts, my body is still wholly rejecting gluten and sugar and dairy (whyyyyyy cheese, whyyyy), so I’ve had to be PRETTY SNEAKY with my “junk food” consumption. But tapioca starch pudding? Dates wrapped in more dates? I got you. (By the bucketful.)
Napped. And not in that “stretching out on a featherbed, waking up refreshed and aglow” kinda way. (Who manages that? Come over here so I can pinch you. And then make you eat some of this tapioca starch pudding.) No, I’ve been doing the feverish power nap rarely seen outside of a narcolepsy clinic. Short, lurching forward-kinda sleeps, where you wake up, immediately apologize, and wonder if you have the imprint of a stapler on your cheekbone.
Pro-tip, you do.
My guess is that all this sleep is less about feeling restored and more about avoiding stress, a la the sloth. (If it’s even the sloth that stress-sleeps. Is it the sloth? Or am I just being lazy, like a sloth? Are sloths lazy or do they just have Resting Sleep Face?)
Googled Stuff A Lot. This might be the biggest avoidance one for me. (Yes, bigger than an entire film franchise in 24 hours.) How bad is hand sanitizer- really? How many seasons did Kids Incorporated run? What’s that pain in my leg? What’s the weather going to be like five weeks from now? How are home sales doing in Toronto? What constitutes a “rush order” on passports? Does Lawrence Street Fish Market deliver? (No, sigh.)
But don’t worry about me (Mom); I’ll be a-ok. Really, really soon, and better than ever with extra-special energy.
I even Googled it.
(After a lengthy internet rabbit-hole involving Doritos throughout the years.)