My Cup Runneth Over

Fate is a prankster when it comes to scheduling. It must be. When one major thing happens to me, at least three other things decide they have to pile on too. I’m left looking like an apocalyptic survivor, my eyes wide and staring, my hair standing on end, my face lined with stress. 

It is always this way. 

The latest occurrence centered around my sleep. Now I don’t sleep well as a general rule. Insomniac is me. Nights where I drift off within an hour of hitting the sheets and don’t wake up until the morning are reasons to believe in miracles. But I usually do manage at least 6 hours of belated, oft-interrupted slumber each night. 

I knew the nights surrounding March 8 would not herald decent rest. March 8 was the Daylight Savings Time switch. You know, spring forward and lose a precious hour? That stupid thing wrought somewhere in the bowels of Hell? Who came up with this nightmare, anyway? Take that person out and shoot them, please. 

March 8 is also Kiddo’s birthday. We had a weekend of joy planned for him: pizza party on the 7th and train museum excursion on the 8th. I knew things were going to be hectic. I was readying for a new book release at the end of the month (Alt-Tam’s work), and it was formatting hell right then. My house needed to be cleaned before friends and family showed up, which meant the usual squalor had to be eliminated. That was a two-day project at the least. Scrambling to decorate, wrapping presents, ordering food and cake ... yes, crazed time was swiftly upon me. Stress climbed to incredible altitudes. 

And then the unplanned thing guaranteed to destroy any hope of rest swooped in on me. Something that any other time would have felt like a miraculous godsend. A producer contacted me about potentially making a script I had written into a TV series. 

All circuits were immediately blown. My brain went into overload, guaranteeing no sleep for the known future. Excitement, hope, and not a little terror conspired to amp me up into the stratosphere. There was no coming down from the adrenaline hit now. I was flying high. 

Saturday, the day of the party, my head felt like it weighed a ton from the fitful dozing I’d barely managed the night before. Somehow the celebration went off without a hitch. Yet a new stressor was introduced, one I hadn’t thought too much about until it was too late. With all the sugar and salt in my system, my menopausal body went into overload. Despite the night’s exhaustion, continued excitement and monstrous non-stop hot flashes conspired to keep me awake most of the night. I was a barely functioning troll on Sunday. I dragged around the train museum after my delighted son, looking like an extra from The Walking Dead. Afterwards, we let him choose where he would have dinner. Of course it was the home of salt: McDonald’s.  

With my diet already trampled, I came home to party leftovers. I ate the party leftovers. Another night of sweating and no sleep ensued as my mind went over every little nuance of the pilot script I’d written and wondering where the hell I was going to find a decent entertainment lawyer in Buttscratch, Georgia, should the miracle of a contract come about. 

This is the way things go in my life. One little thing is planned. Then a bunch of other things happen, zeroing in on that date of the calendar. You’d think I’d expect it by now. But no, I’m always surprised by the coincidental events that barrel at me like a runaway train. 

This is my world. This is why I look the way I do. Have pity when you come across this poor, shambling wreck. Don’t be surprised if I collapse in a snoring heap in the middle of a conversation. And if anything comes up that I need to deal with, please just shoot me. It's the only way I'll ever get any rest.