I stayed up ’till near midnight trying to complete a post about running. It’s coming. I promise. After all, this was once a running blog.
The night that followed was a sleepless night — for both me and YaYa (whom I let sleep with me). Taking turns waking during the night, I believe that I saw every hour on the clock between 3 am and 6 am. By the time my clock started chiming to call me out back from what finally felt like sleep, a refusal-to-get-OUT-OF-BED had hit my being through and through.
When I’d finally drug my sorry arse out of bed, I could feel an all too familiar feeling of sadness. DAMN! “Later” has arrived. Much like the dull headache you get after drinking too much (not that I know anything about that), this feeling never quite leaves no matter what measures you take.
I make the strongest cup of coffee that I can and drag my body into the bathroom for a look in the mirror. It’s just as I thought; I feel bad and look it too. Unfortunately, I lack the energy or want to do much about it. I drag the brush through my tanged hair (knowing full well that I will be left with a frazzled mess), then pull my hair up in a ponytail. I open up my bathroom drawer and sort through my make up for a little color. I hope this will brighten up my face — I hate when my co-workers tell me that I look like shit (even if I do). Then I dig through my drawer looking, but not finding, my smile. It appears to have been misplaced.
