Today I turned the key in the ignition and reached to put the car in gear but flicked on the windshield wipers instead, because I was so sleepy I had forgotten in which car I sat. Instead of the truck I’ve driven for more than six years, whose gear shift is on the steering column, I sat in our new car, a white Mazda 5. Whose gear shift is in the center console.
So sleepy I forgot which car and how to put it into drive. How did I reach this level of exhaustion? 15-hour days. Oh, not mine. My husband’s.
He’s been pulling 12-15 hour days since Monday now because it’s Inventory Week. Our first. And we’re both exhausted. But?
Say it with me: One more day.
How to Survive When You’re Tired
The days, they’ve have gone something like this:
- 4:30 AM – both of our phone alarms wake us from a sound sleep, because if we didn’t have both phones set, one alarm might not be enough to fully rouse us. Ask us how we know.
- 4:45 AM – he emerges from the shower and I put his plate of two scrambled eggs in front of him. While he eats, I pull the lunch I packed for him the night before from the fridge. We smile sleepily at each other.
- 5:00 AM – one last goodbye kiss, and he’s out the door. I return to bed to search for some fitful sleep, but let’s face it, the neighbors are noisy and I haven’t yet learned how to fully rest when he’s not there.
- 8:40 AM – I stumble to the car, certain I’ve forgotten something. Every morning this week I’ve been certain I’m forgetting something on my way to work. If I truly am, I haven’t yet remembered.
- 9:00 AM – I sit down at my desk.
- 12:00 PM – The Beloved Midway Point. I get to text him for a bit while he’s on his lunch break.
- 4:00 PM – I leave my desk and drive home to an empty apartment. I start a load of laundry or do the dishes or sweep the kitchen. I daydream about napping (again, can’t fully rest when he’s not home) and instead catch up on Instagram stories.
The evenings are hardest, of course. For three reasons:
- I no longer have the distraction of work.
- I don’t have any idea when he’s coming home. Each day, it’s been late.
- I really really dislike eating dinner at the apartment on my own.
I’m not sure I’ve ever made and eaten dinner in our home without him, in our near-year of marriage. Whenever Devin is scheduled to close at the store, I make plans for dinner with my parents or a friend.
But this week, I’ve been unable to do one of my favorite things: plan.
His schedule lists 2:30pm as his come-home time, but I know after three days now not to expect that. So instead I wait on that “on my way” text to even think about dinner. Since I’m hypoglycemic, I try to snack but white-chocolate covered pretzels hold little appeal.
I think my taste buds are still asleep.
Also, today I ran a red light. Badly. But I was way too “committed,” as my dad used to say about that moment when you’re pulling out of a parking spot and see a car approaching but you’re sticking out too far for them to even think about passing).
Yesterday I misread the word “jam” for an expletive. Yep, that happened. Still not quite sure how, but my poor coworker friend looked at me like I’d lost my marbles. So I told her instead about all of the sleep I have lost.
Something else I’ve lost: my plan. We were supposed to go out on a putt-putt date this week. I had a grandiose menu for the other few days. There’s that movie we thought we’d watch.
But in the grand scheme, I’ve not lost a thing besides sleep and my own plan. After all, he’s not military and deployed. Or a farmer with a field to harvest. It’s not a business trip. I do see him each day. I tell myself these things and more, because truly it could be harder.
Are my eyeballs red? I think they are.
I’m still tired. Yet God’s still good.
I’ve silenced my unnecessary alarm each morning and turned to my SheReadsTruth app to read about how He’s good, the Provider of my every need, and how there’s hope. Yep, there’s hope all right. I wrote three books about that. I know that.
Say it with me: One more day.
I hesitate to publish this post because I don’t want to sound as if I’m complaining or whining about how truly blessed I am. And oh how truly blessed I am. I’m married to a wonderful man. He’s employed. We’re doing well. I have the very thing I once dreamed of: him.
I’m just tired. Maybe venting. Probably word-vomiting. Sorry, friend. Thanks for reading. And remember, there’s always hope.