The only thing worse for me than a Monday morning is a Sunday night.
I loooove lazy Sunday afternoons, and family dinners on Sunday evenings are usually pretty fun and laid back. But somewhere around 11 p.m., as I lay in bed, exhausted yet waiting for sleep to overtake me, it hits.
I can't sleep.
I lay in bed, contemplating whether getting up and out of the spot where I've tossed and turned for half an hour will help me or hurt me more.
After contemplating that for a few minutes, my mind starts to make lists of all the things I could do if I were to get up and out of bed.
Well, I say to myself, I could load the dishwasher. That might ease my mind a bit - have something crossed off my eternal "to do" list.
But I'm so warm and comfy here. What if I can't get comfy again when I get back? And, What if I'm three minutes from sleep? I could be up much later than I need to be.
Then I do the dreaded "look at the clock and calculate how many hours I have left until I get up" routine.
Besides, I'll get six hours of sleep if I can fall asleep RIGHT NOW.
So I stay put, try and tell myself to relax, try to let the tension ease out of my face and shoulders. Just as I start to let go and give myself over to the Most Elusive Sleep, it hits me.
It doesn't even matter what IT is.
Last night?
Oh crap. I haven't written out a check for the mortgage yet. I need to remember to grab the payment book and checkbook in the morning so I can send that out.
Oh - and I should grab BOTH Netflix movies, cuz let's face it, I've had that one for three weeks and even though its supposed to be really good its just too intellectual of a movie for me right now and no one will ever know or care if I've ever actually seen it. I should just send it back and move The Simpsons Movie to the top of my queue.
Then: I should write a post about how I can never get to sleep on Sunday nights. I'll start it like this: "The only thing worse for me than a Monday morning is a Sunday night." Yeah, that sounds good.
My mind just goes and goes and goes. I can't turn it off. Its as if the prospect of the upcoming week amplifies all of my worries. I start to think about things that need to be done to get the house on the market, the cleaning I've put off and all the fun things I should take my kids to do (should it ever actually get WARM here and stop freakin' snowing).
Somewhere around 1 a.m. I'll wake Jay up and ask him to rub my back. While he's doing so (half asleep, poor guy) I'll ramble my fool head off, spewing out all the toxic CRAP that's just weighing upon my subconscious. (Like the good man he is, he's sure to keep rubbing and mumble, "Uh huh. I know. I hear ya." every so often so that I know he's still awake.)
And only when we're coming up on 2 a.m. and I've done the "look at the clock and calculate how many hours I have left until I get up" routine one.more.time. and realize that maybe I should have never tried to go to sleep in the first place, I should have just stayed up and I would have gotten SO MUCH DONE --
I find myself waking up to my alarm, cursing the fact that I'm still so tired.
