I didn’t sleep last night.  Like, at all.  I was in the bed. The lights were off and I was tired.    My eyes leaking tired tears, but I stayed up until the last three minutes of the Super Bowl before turning in. I’d hoped that Carolina would turn things around, but to score two touchdowns with 2 point conversions each time or some combination of touchdowns, conversions, and field goals in three minutes was a task even the real Superman would be hard pressed to accomplish.

It was 11:00. I was ready to go to sleep. It had been an activity filled week-end for all of us, so much so that when V went down her nap on Sunday afternoon, I did, too.  I didn’t sleep for very long; I felt refreshed when I woke up.  Energized enough, laundry got done, heads got washed, lunches got made so that we could turn on the pre-game show with no chores lingering in the periphery.

Snacks in hand, take-out on the table, it was a family, fun, and football filled Sunday evening.  Maybe it was the Chinese food. Maybe it was the few half dozen Ghiradelli chocolate squares that I chased that Szechuan chicken with.  Maybe it was the anticipation of another week of “to-do’s” that had me wide awake at midnight, 2:21, 3:21, 4:41, and 4:58 before the alarm went off at 5:00.

There’s something going on with me, because last night wasn’t the first night that I’ve lain awake on Sunday night, running through my head the list of what needs to be checked off the following day, week, and month.  That used to happen when I was in grad school, so much so, I had to be prescribed sleeping pills in order to silence my brain. I don’t have that kind of stress going on these days (or do I?) that requires medical intervention.    I don’t know what it is, but every Sunday night, after the kids are in bed, the house has been put to rights and I slide under the covers, my brain decides to kick into another gear.

The fact is, I’m tired.  I am so tired.  My day begins at five and goes full speed ahead until about 10pm, at which time I peel my contacts off of my eyeballs, wash my face, and if I’ve got a little juice left in the tank, twist my hair before tucking it under my bonnet.  I have always been an early bird. I would much prefer to get up while it’s still dark outside rather than stay awake all night and watch the sun come up.  I did that once: watched the sun rise off the coast of Greece after having stayed up all night on the last night of a Mediterranean cruise. It was beautiful and I was so delirious with fatigue, I’m amazed I can even remember it.

The worst part is, well aside from the under eye circles and the scarf of fatigue wrapped around my shoulders, is that while I’m lying there, I think of these amazing blog post ideas, make all of these plans for cocktail parties, and construct elaborate to do lists that will keep all of my plates spinning effortlessly.  Then, when it truly is time to wake up, I can’t remember a daggone thing.  I’ve heard you should keep a notepad by the bed to jot things down when that happens, but I haven’t done it. My fear is that if I do in fact get up, then I’ll be up for good for the day — at like 2 in the morning.  I would be no good to anyone if I did that.

I don’t pick up my phone. I don’t pick up my iPad. I don’t dare turn on the TV.

I’ve tried counting sheep. I’ve tried listing all the people on my family tree. I’ve tried praying. I’ve tried conjugating French verbs. As a matter of fact, I had an extensive conversation with myself, in French, about how I have a large vocabulary, but when I am ready to speak,  I usually forget or don’t know the word I need to make the sentence make sense.  In my head, I’m a doyenne of all things Parisian.  When I open my mouth, the words drop out as if I’ve been holding them in my cheeks like a squirrel stores nuts.

And then I think of that embarrassing thing I did five/ten/fifteen years ago and cringe all over again.

Ugh, I’m so tired.