You wake up and things don’t feel right. You’re in your bed and that’s fine, but everything outside the bed seems part of a vast nexus of choice and consequence, and the more you think about it, the more remaining in bed seems the best option. Because once you get up, you’ve agreed to become part of this neverending chain reaction and you’ll have to make decisions and your decisions will have weight. And the last thing you want is weight.
This is not today. But it has been, for the last couple.
It’s like some part of my brain simply stops working. The part of me that processes logical thought and systematic information just up and takes an unannounced vacation and suddenly the slightest complications become unimaginable obstacles. The simple act of leaving the house in the morning is Sysiphean in nature. Conceptualizing what elements might make for a relaxing Sunday is like trying to french braid your hair with your hands on backwards. And planning out a week… well, you might as well hand me a 12-sided rubix cube and point a loaded gun at my head.
But today I got up, went for a run, took an Ativan, and went to orientation at RFBD, where I’ll be volunteering time over the next few months. It was cold in the orientation room, the guy talked forever about nothing, and I spent the whole time wishing, oh, maybe, that I’d stayed in bed.