Tired

I'm tired.

Not sleepy, though I'm almost always happy to contemplate a return to bed. But it's not the kind of tired that I think sleep will fix.

I'm tired of my job. I'm tired of being taken for granted. I'm tired of the endless meetings and administrivia and paperwork that no one cares about. I'm tired of being a necessary evil rather than a valuable resource. I'm tired of feeling like I could dry up and blow away and no one would even notice. I'd quit in an instant if I thought I had a single skill that I could market elsewhere.

I'm tired of my body. I'm tired of the endless aches in my knee and back. I'm tired of the fuzzy hearing. I'm tired of my ugly hair and the bags under my eyes. I'm tired of the cravings for things I shouldn't have. I'm tired of the constant lack of energy (that diet and exercise were supposed to fix, dammit). I may be getting thinner, but I'm not getting any younger.

I'm tired of my house. I'm tired of the clutter that I can't get rid of. I'm tired of the mess that no amount of cleaning up seems to fix. I'm tired of the carpet, I'm tired of the walls, I'm tired of the furniture. I wish I could have six months and the budget to throw every single thing out and start over from scratch.

I'm tired of my life. I'm tired of reading the same four books to Alex over and over and over. I'm tired of trying to make sense of Penny's random questions. I'm tired of the treadmill of routine. I'm tired of participating in endless chatter but failing to be involved in a single conversation. I'm tired of being adequate at a lot of things but excelling at nothing.

I'm tired of being so whiny and pathetic.

God, I hope this is PMS.