Even so, during the past week I've felt like I've been hit by a truck.
I've been tired, sluggish, sore, and unmotivated. An acquaintance suggested that my lethargy might be due to aging, and as evidence, she quite happily referenced the fact that I celebrated my 39th birthday earlier this month. Point noted, but grudgingly, because a) turning 39 means I'm practically still a puppy, and b) we're all aging. Every day, in fact.
No, I don't believe that the real culprit for my recent tiredness is because I'm facing the end of my 30's. I've decided that it's due to my recent trip to Florida. Florida has ruined me. During our six days in the Sunshine State, I grew accustomed to warmth, and vitamin D, and the smell of sunscreen, and posing for pictures with alligators.
Now that I've returned to the daily grind of my life in the north, I've reverted to a cold-weather existence that involves heavy jackets, clunky snow boots, gray skies, snow squalls, and scraping frost from my windshield in the morning when I forget to pull my car into the garage.
I tolerated this reality for the past several months without complaint (or even notice), but now I've moved past these winterish practices, both mentally and physically. They have no place in my post-Florida-trip lifestyle. I vehemently object to them, in fact, but despite my protest, they continue.
Which is why I recently took a nap on my kitchen floor. You see, when the afternoon sun shines (which doesn't always happen in March, but did happen today), it illuminates a small stretch of flooring tucked between my kitchen table, a house plant, the spot where my kids leave their boots, and the wall where I lean our broom.
And, for some reason, when I saw this brilliant sunshine streaming through the sliding glass doors this afternoon, I immediately lay down, stretched out, closed my eyes, and basked in the light. Granted, closing your eyes is a dangerous prospect when you're worn out; sleep comes quickly, even if you're not intending it to.
In my last wakeful moment, after realizing that there were some hardened Cheerios stuck to the floor near my head and noticing that a child had vandalized the underside of our kitchen table with Banksy-esque graffiti, I remember vaguely thinking, "If Joel comes home and finds me sprawled on the linoleum, he's going to think I'm dead." (Of course, if my kids had found me, they would have ignored the fact that I was on the floor, nudged me with a foot, and asked for a snack.)
It wasn't quite the same as lying on the beach, mind you, but it must have counted for something. After all, I woke from my unlikely nap feeling warm, refreshed, and no longer as if I'd been hit by a truck.