A day in the life of a hormonally imbalanced, overextended, unappreciated, undervalued, exhausted, intolerant woman who tries to save the day before she tries to save herself.
My alarm goes off. It’s that annoying BEEP!! BEEP!! BEEP!! alarm tone that gets my heart rate going as fast as an episode of Grey’s Anatomy in the days when they had McDreamy and McSteamy on the show.
Why did you kill them off, Shonda Rhimes!!?
(Sigh) I was in my thirties back then. Jackson is cute, but I don’t get those feelings so much anymore.
My thirties are only 5 years in my past, but they feel like a century.
BEEP!!, BEEP!!,BEEP!!….I really must change that alarm tone.
I grab my phone and swipe it in the direction to turn it off, but immediately wish I’d snoozed it instead. I feel exhausted. The sheets are still clammy from my night sweats. I feel like I have cement running through my veins. Bare feet on the floor and I head to the kitchen to get the first pot of coffee going. I remember when I used to do a quick 20-minute yoga session first thing in the morning to start my day right.
This morning I don’t think I could do a sun salutation or dog of any kind if my life depended on it.
How many hours of sleep did I get last night? I count on my fingers as the coffeemaker begins to percolate. Not counting the four to five times I woke up and the two hours it took me to fall asleep initially, I probably got five and a half to six hours. I used to sleep like a baby.
Yep. Thirty-something yoga-pant wearing—I me sleeping like a champ and fantasizing about TV doctors. . . . I wish I could feel that way again.
I sip my coffee, but it doesn’t seem to lift the fog. I still have one teenager in the house, and I make his lunch. I know, I know. He should make his own lunch. But he’s my baby, and once he’s gone I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m divorced, so after he’s gone, I’ll really be alone.
Fast-forward three hours. I’m at the office. I click away on my mouse, losing my train of thought for the umpteenth time as I try to finish my report. I’m on my third cup of coffee, and even though my heart is racing (caffeine?) somehow I still feel tired. I’m like an overweight crash test dummy getting electro shock therapy. No matter how many jolts I get, I can’t seem to come alive. I look at the clock and my eyes find their way over the top of my cubicle to Lila in her hot pink pants suit with her beautiful teeth showing as she laughs and tosses her thick mane of hair. My brow furrows. Lila is my age, but she always seems so . . . what’s the word?
And energetic. No, not energetic. Energized. Sort of lit from within, like a hot pink lava lamp.
She laughs again. She’s made a joke, and she’s laughing and everyone around her is laughing with her. And she looks, like, 15 years younger than she is and 30 years younger than I feel.
On the one hand I hate her right now, but on the other I want to be her best friend. She knows something I don’t. I want to know her secret. I want to feel like she does, look like she does, laugh like she does.
I put down my fall-themed mug and push back my chair.
Whatever it is Lila’s got going for her, I’m going to find out what it is.
*Read part 2 here.
*Read part 3 here.