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If you DO want to know, welcome to my blog |
For those who actually want to follow my thoughts, ideas, moans, and gripes, this is the place for you! For those of you who are returning...I questions your judgment, you poor souls. 
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| I'm tired. I like to tell people that that I got tired back around 1998, and I still haven't recovered from it. 1998. Man, it just doesn't seem that long ago. "That's just so nineties," they say on HGTV. "Hey! Watch it, the nineties weren't that long ago!" I yell back at the TV, as if they can hear. (I actually have a sneaking suspicion the TV can hear; it seems like the more I complain, the more commercials I am afflicted with while I try to watch my show.) But it was a while ago. Just like everyone else, my body reminds me just how long ago it was by running an audit every time I try to do something. Back in '98, I could help a friend move in the morning, mow the grass in the afternoon, and hit the pub in the evening—just another day. Now, however, I put up a half sheet of drywall and some interior trim, my brain starts asking: "Should you really be doing all this work? Kidneys told me they object, and we've had multiple reports from Back and Knees and that the warranty on them ran out back in 1998. You will be penalized for this effort: later on, you won't be able to get off the couch without sounding like a sty full of annoyed hogs." Relegated to the couch by about 2:00, the feeling doesn't pass, though. "Activity taxes, buddy," my brain intones implacably. "Now it's time to fight a nap. If you nap, I'm not sleeping tonight. If you don't nap, I'm telling Eyelids to quit for the day. Good luck trying to see your show on HGTV!" Great. So there I am, using the muscles in my forehead and scalp to try to keep my eyes open. Come dinnertime, I'm too tired to cook, and it turns out I'm almost too tired to chew a bologna and cheese sandwich. (Strangely, though, I have plenty of energy to seek out the worst foods possible to snack on during Help! I Wrecked My House!) Bedtime brings no relief anymore, either. As soon as I am horizontal, I'm like those dolls my daughter used to play with— the ones that opened and closed their eyes depending on the position of the doll. As soon as I'm on my back, my eyes are open. The brain comes back online: "Hey, you remember all that stuff you didn't get done and came close to giving you a panic attack? Yeah—let's think about all those. Right now!" My wife asks me if I'm feeling okay because I'm shaking from trying to battle my own brain. "Fine, honey, just my nightly nervous breakdown." "Oh, okay. Night!" Morning rolls around and 1998 is one more day away in the past. Really? It's almost 2026?! The kids are grown and moved out, the bills are paid, and the driveway is all shoveled out. And I'm still exhausted! I get up and slog through my morning routine, sipping coffee out of a mug that I got on my birthday when my daughter was two. I hold the mug up and look at it, wrinkling my brow. "I wonder what the joke on this meant. I don't really remember. But I know one thing: it's so nineties!" |
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I'm by no means a nineties kid... The 2010's are my teenage nostalgia, and the 00's are my childhood, and the nineties just look a lot like the eighties when I see pictures of them 
I still thank the Lord every day that LG only decided to kill off my old phone after I finished writing "
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because that's exactly how I feel most days. I'm used to living on the edge of wanting to wring the neck(s?) of any number of people while trying to maintain "
