spring it forward. and stay there.
I don’t know if it’s that I’m finally more in touch with my body and I realize that I’m doing this. That I’ve always done this.
Or if I’m just middle-aged {almost 40} and unable to perform basic tasks like, oh, you know… sleeping.
Maybe in my sunsetting years, I’m really in tune with my surroundings like a true empath or something else that sounds important. We’ll go with that. But you know which topic it was time to discuss again.
You knew it was coming, if you’ve been reading here for a while. So you’re either rubbing your hands with glee, or closing your laptop and walking away. For the record, it’s totally okay, laptop-closers. Come back tomorrow where I’m sure we’ll be showcasing macaroni macrame hammocks from a ten foot ladder, embellished with colorful tassels and easter eggs because spring. Maybe I’ll fall out of said hammock on camera. I know you can’t wait.
My body knows that it’s coming, the night before the actual night of time change. What is wrong with me?! I think we all tend to complain less when we spring forward, because at least it’s one more hour of light in the evenings. But backward or forward it makes absolutely no difference whatsoever. Like there’s something in the pull of the tide of the moon, connected to my mother soul or something else wise and also full of crap, inserted here. Because it’s all miserable.
And therefore, I can not sleep.
No, I have no toddlers. Or babies. I did my time, and put in all my efforts so I still feel bad for anyone dealing with sleepless nights all together. But you see, my situation is complicated. Because it still affects my children, and my dogs and everything around me. It never goes away. Making matters worse, I’m not immune to the time change. Because ME. It affects me.
You see, I am the toddler.
My eyes spring open at some ungodly, reserved-for-crossfitters-who-post-their-gains-to-social-media-and-we-don’t-care {#whatsyourexcuse #noexcuses #9packisthenew6 #blessed} 4 am hour every time. On a morning where I should be catching up with my sleep. The morning before the time is to change the day after. Like my body is preparing me for misery. It’s all, time to get CRUNKED! Let’s just jump in early and go bat crap cray with a train derailment of thought, because my brain starts racing and I’m totally screwed.
You see, I’m a worrier, from a line of professional worriers. The very best. If there were an olympic sport for such things, I would be at the top of all the gold medals because I am SO GOOD AT IT. There’s something about the time change that triggers me.
I should be sleeping like a baby.
There are fireflies and flowers and grass and sunshine and margaritas by the pool nights in my near future. But instead, my body totally freaks out.
My eyes spring open, and I’m suddenly thinking about our latest project. The load of laundry I inevitably left in the wash. If the plane will crash when I board in a month. The weird pain in my right boob. My next chiropractor appointment. The third grader’s school project {that I totally forgot about until out with friends for dinner-whoops}. The weird pain in my left pinky. If I made it awkward at that baby shower when I started discussing warts. Our addition that starts this week {!!!!}. The dogs and the weird sounds they make and if we should start them back on their allergy medication. That place on my lip that won’t go away. Is that a wart?! Making beds.
Make it STAHP.
I don’t do this every night. If I did it every night, one might see a pattern and also see a doctor. Yes, I see a therapist. I take all my vitamins. No, I don’t need your Plexus supplements. I’m actually quite good at passing out early and sleeping through the alarm until Jamin tells me it’s time to get up. I am the antithesis of the proverbs 31 woman, and I’m not even sorry about it. Not in my wheelhouse.
But my body is preparing me for the time change, or menopause. I’m not sure which one. Like, Hey Ash. I know you’re going to be super miserable tomorrow night, so let’s start this party early. And keep it on repeat for like, two weeks!
Rawr.
This normally wouldn’t be a big deal, except, oh, it is. As established in my fall back post, I’m one of those super sensitive snowflake people who need all the sleep. Someone is officially out to get me because it keeps lining up with my lady cycle. I don’t understand why my body is apparently connected to the rotation of the sun and the earth and also congress and their stupid time change ideas, since I know it’s coming. Even when I don’t know it’s coming, because I’d totally forgotten that the time was supposed to change. {More deep thoughts while I should be sleeping: Am I sabotaging myself on purpose!?} Forwards or backwards it doesn’t matter. I’ll be a giant zombie with giant grey circles under her eyes on a PMS rampage who can’t even. Side note: I love that we have a speaking engagement at the end of the week.
I’m going to look incredible.
There was a post recently, on the app Next Door, connected to our neighborhood. If you’re not familiar with Next Door, you really should be because it’s pure fodder for angry people and fireworks and lawn mowing requirements and HOA dues and things that really make my life feel more enriched. #Murica
But in one of its rare, amazing moments, a person was pleading with everyone to write our local congressperson to end the time change. And I was all, for Narniaaaaaa! Tell me where to sign. I’m ready to charge into battle. This cause is real.
Until someone in the comment thread said that the cause wasn’t important. They basically tried to make some correlation between this and bigger causes, like Africa. Which was a cheap move because Africa always wins, and I’m pretty sure this person has never personally helped Africa, besides a nice round of poverty tourism. Maybe if the time change stopped, you could think clearly and make a real difference, DEBRA.
This person, once again, proved my theory of trolls and how they’re perpetually showcasing a cat as their profile pic. I’m always curious about ravenously angry {even grumpy} comments and the people who feel the need to leave them. I have a running joke with friends that all mean comments on social media and blogs and all news threads world wide, come from people who have a cat as their profile photo, like they’re hiding behind the feline prowess so you can’t see their real face. Someone should do a sociology study on this phenomenon. There’s a 75% chance that if your cat is your profile pic, you’re dead on the inside. Edited to add: we like cats. Not the angry rabid troll people. If you feel this doesn’t apply to you, see why I left a 25% possibility.
I blame the time change.
What is the point of this tirade other than the fact that I was up at 4 am the other morning writing it? In the name of tell me that you suffer just a little every time, too. That the weird pain in my knee is just getting older and not death by some odd disease that they haven’t discovered yet and also #anxiety.
In the name of camaraderie. That your kids are grumpy, that you’ll eat pizza twice this week because you’re exhausted, {if it’s like Monday and Thursday there are totally enough days in between, y’all} and that you’ll be climbing into bed at 8 because you binge watched Netflix and brought this on yourself the night before when you went to bed at 12 even though it felt like eleven, which was still pushing it because you’re old, due to an overload of coffee.
Wait. Maybe that’s my problem.
And that you not so secretly hope Debra is having as hard a time as you are, seriously questioning her life choices, comment thread contributions, and cat profile pics.
Here’s to the ever-elusive sleep.
May it forever spring forward. And stay there.