I moved last weekend. Wait, you might say, didn’t you just do that? To which I would reply: yes.
You may also recall, should you follow me on Twitter, that after moving all my stuff DOWN nine flights of stairs in November, I swore never to move again.
I should listen to myself.
The movers were 90 minutes late. It poured with rain. Not only did we have to move everything up nine flights of slippery stairs, but both Emily and I moved into houses that were three storeys high.
By the time we’d finished, my limbs had the strength and consistency of quivering noodles. I was so tired I broke my heater, my lamp and a box of glasses. My poor cat disappeared into my closet and wouldn’t come out (he still mostly won’t).
This time for real: I’m never moving again.
This week has felt like a constant conspiracy to keep me from sleep. I’m so useless this morning that I forgot to finish my coffee. How does that even happen?
You know how I like to boast about how I never sleep? I’ve got shit to do instead of sleep! Sleep is a waste of time! I’m tougher than sleep!, et cet? Turns out, when I WANT to sleep and can’t, all bets are off.
I am a whiny, whingy baby right now. My new flatmates, bless their souls, like to watch movies at 2am on weeknights. Like, regularly. I can’t judge them for this because I totally get it: movies are AWESOME at 2am. Since I don’t hit peak productivity until after midnight anyway (one of many reasons the arbitrary “rules” of “work” don’t do anything for me (also offices, meetings, dress codes, authority...)), I’d be right in there amongst it if my job wasn’t kicking my ass so hard.
As it is, I’ve been more or less living alone for six months, and I’ve forgotten how to sleep through noise. All week I’ve been coming home intending that TODAY will be the day I have the energy for the gym, and all week I’ve ended up eating Peanut Butter Cups in bed instead.
(And yet, I lost weight this week. Peanut Butter Cup pajama diet? Or muscle atrophy?)
Last night, once I got done self-sabotaging (half a box of jellybeans and too many episodes of White Collar), I was prepared to SMASH a good night’s sleep. Flatmates were quiet. All was well. And then, at 5am this morning, my cat decided to emerge from the closet where he’s been living for a week.
And accost my sleeping head.
Then he upended his litter tray across the bathroom and spent a good half-hour noisily shredding a newspaper. It went on so long that I could have given up and gone to a morning class at the gym.
But I didn’t.
And now I’m very, very grumpy.
And I maybe need to move.