I'm so tired.
Not like normal end-of-day tired, but like, will-I-make-it-to-my-bed-with-my-teeth-brushed kind of tired. Will-I-have-the-energy-to-change-into-pajamas kind of tired. Am-I-getting-sick kind of tired.
I am. As much as I hate to admit it, I know I am.
I didn't feel great coming home from work on Friday, or even on the way to work that morning, but I just assumed it was two-weeks-into-school exhaustion, and that with some extended sleep, I'd feel fine on the other side of Sunday.
Of course, I didn't end up getting as much sleep as I intended. Between a date on Friday and volleyball on Saturday morning and celebrating the birth of my friend Mick on Saturday night and church and things on Sunday, I got a pretty average amount of sleep across the duration of the weekend.
Which is probably why I'm coughing on my couch and trying to keep my now heavy-lidded eyes from shutting entirely before I finish this post.
I guess I shouldn't really complain. If you put me back at Friday evening, I'd do it all over again. I'd still go on that date till early in the morning and play volleyball in summer heat and sing karaoke in Kenner and have lunch on Banks street and go to sleep Sunday night with a smile because it was one of the best weekends--in a string of nice weekends--that I've had this summer.
Enough of that for now. I've filled my Monday writing requirement, and you'd had your fair share of vague and insubstantial run-on sentences. I'm headed to bed, and I hope I get better soon, but I'll be dreaming of this weekend. And wishing for more weekends like it to come.
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