Energy. I have worn out that word lately.
 
I am coming out of a longish phase of over-extending myself emotionally, mentally, and physically. The result has been a complete lack of energy for normal, every day tasks. Who would have thought it could take so much oomph just to brush my teeth? As the days go by and I make a point to be nice to myself, I find my energy levels slowly creeping back up. For instance, now I can make my bed, go to church, and even meet new people without feeling the need to go home and immediately take a nap or cry. I think this is good progress.
 
Writing requires a good deal of energy. I’m not sure why it carries such a strong emotional tie, but it does. On most days the prospect of sitting down, thinking thoughts, and recording them on paper is just more than I can summon the energy for, so a couple of months have gone by and I’ve hardly written a thing. I’m ready to have more energy to throw into writing because I enjoy it and I think it’s cathartic. I like things that are cathartic, especially things that don’t involve the destruction of personal property.
 
I had a lot of energy at work today. I opened this morning and, for some reason, found myself on a rampage. A good-natured rampage, mind you. I was irritated with the pastries that were stashed in inappropriate places, irritated with the deliveryman for blocking the refrigerator with 200 pounds of milk, and irritated with the endless stream of customers keeping me from my own cup of coffee.
 
My irritation eventually gave way to the fidgets. I didn’t leave my register for the first three hours of business (a solid customer stream) and I thought I would just DIE if I had to stand there and ask one more person how they’re stupid day was going. I just wished that one person would ask me how my morning was going and that I could shout back out, “I’D BE A HECK OF A LOT BETTER IF YOU WOULD ALL BUZZ OFF AND LET ME HAVE A MOMENT’S PEACE!” But I didn’t say that. Management frowns on those sorts of outbursts.
 
Once I got off the register, all of my restlessness turned into hyperactivity. I wore a box, I danced, I frolicked, I karaoked, I stuffed tip money into my bra, and I made crank calls to the store from the back room. Everybody else was in strange form, too, so we all ended up weak from giggly fits of laughter. One of the girls is seven months pregnant and our goal was to see if we could make her laugh so hard she’d pee her pants. She came close today.
 
By the time my shift came to an end, I was spent. It was with my last ounce of effort that I finally untied my apron, hitched on my backpack, and began the 10-block walk to my car. That, in combination with a blistering sun, nearly finished me off.
 
Now I’m home and too tired to go work out, but not tired enough to warrant a nap so late in the day. So I’m sitting. And writing. 
 
I believe that’s all I have to say for now.