I'm dog tired. I'm not just weary or spent. I'm talking done in, as in "I may never recover."
This past week, while my body was still trying to adjust to springing forward an hour, I also, for some unknown reason, felt compelled to take on the challenge of spring yard cleanup and not just my yard, but my mother's as well. What was I thinking?
It must have been the slightly warmer temperatures or the feel of the sun on my face after all those endless cold, rainy days. Or maybe I just took pity on our poor shrubs trying to put out new leaves while still choked with last fall's dead ones. Or maybe I was shamed into it when the neighbors all did their yards and left mine looking like the next "Desperate Landscape" candidate.
Actually, it was all of the above, but whatever the reason, I spent nearly two full days this past week raking, pruning, clipping, trimming, bundling, hauling and planting. I even picked all the remaining grapefruits and oranges from all our trees, washed and squeezed more of them than we'll ever use, and trucked the rest to the local food pantry.
Now, the yards look exquisite and I'm ready to call 911. I am so exhausted, not to mention bruised and sore, that even my eyelids hurt. I don't have a single fingernail left on either hand. My knees are swollen up like balloons and my arms are so scratched I look like I've been in a knock-down, drag-out with a Florida panther. When John got home from work yesterday he didn't even recognize me. He thought I'd been mugged.
The worst thing about all this is that I do it every year, and every year the result is worse, because, obviously, I'm a year older - but not wiser. Duh-uh! Why can't I be content to pace myself? Why can't I do it a little at a time over a period of a week or two? What's the rush?
It's not as if I'm getting paid or that I'll impress anyone by getting it all done in a day and a half. I'm not going to earn a bonus or get a promotion. No one's going to fire me if I don't finish it all lickety-split. So where's the fire? Why the hell-bent, go-for-broke mania?
Because now I have just enough energy left to do one small final task. And now John feels sufficiently sympathetic and grateful (and a teeny bit guilty) so I can get away with doing that one small final task.
Now I have just barely enough get-up-and-go to make one cell-phone call that will save my life, then I'll grab my keys and drag myself out to my dirty old SUV.
With my last ounce of arenaline, I'll drive myself to the local salon for a total makeover. We're talking massage, facial, haircut and color, manicure, pedicure, and wax job. The spring cleanup I undergo will be even more dramatic than the one on our yard. When I get home, John still won't recognize me, but this time he'll enjoy the sensation.
At least until he sees the bill.