I have been under a lot of stress lately. I know we've all been there. Stretched too thin, no free time, all work no play. I'm exhausted. I wake up exhausted and fumble around the house like the undead, and much like the undead (ie: zombies), I am a danger to both myself, and others.
Case in point: Monday I put the kettle on, then shuffled off to the bathroom to make myself presentable. I do this every morning. By the time I have smeared enough concealer under my eyes to disguise looking like the undead, the kettle is usually whistling and I'm ready to pour some hot water over coffee grinds (I use a french press to make coffee, if that sounds confusing). This particular morning, after my usual struggle with the hairbrush and mascara wand, the air was silent. There was no whistling or rumbling or any kind of noise to indicate the kettle was doing it's duty.
My first thought was that I had filled the kettle, then forgot to turn the element up on the stove. This is an unfortunate, yet not infrequent occurrence. This morning, the element was up. All the way up . All the way up on the wrong burner. All the way up on the wrong burner, under an empty pot. I entered the kitchen, adequately presentable, to find the pot smoking and filling the morning air with that oh-so-pleasant eau de plastic char. The empty pot had grown so hot that the plastic handle on the lid had begun to melt. Son of a *^#&%:! I could have burned my house down!
Another case in point: Midway through Tuesday morning I started feeling queasy. I have a relatively strong stomach, and nausea is something I only experience when ill or terrifically hungover. Knowing no alcohol had passed my lips the night before and without further signs of illness, I began to panic. Quietly and inwardly loosing my cool, alone in my cubicle, I feared the only other option: there's a bun in the oven! (This conclusion was highly unlikely, yet I understand, despite my best efforts, I'm not immune to pregnancy.)
Upon returning home, having eaten next to nothing for lunch, I was finally starting to regain my appetite. I was rummaging in the fridge for something relatively benign to eat when the answer to my tummy troubles smacked me right in the face; orange juice! I picked up the carton and looked at the expiry date. Son of a *^#&%:!
Why am I telling you all this about burning pots and iffy o.j.? These are symptoms, my friends. Symptoms of an over-worked and under-knit woman. I came to realize that the two life-threatening mornings I'd had this week directly followed knit-less evenings.
I have tried to recall the last time I have not knit for forty-eight hours. I can't. In the past year or two, not a day goes by where I don't knit. Even if it's for five minutes, I pick up those sticks and throw some yarn around.
Wednesday night? I took the night "off". Sure I stayed late at the office. Sure I met with my accountant after that. But when I got home? I uncorked a nice cab/sauv., ordered some sushi, and sat down to knit.
This morning I woke up a new woman. No kidding. No groggy accidents. No questionable breakfast beverages. And you know what? I was happy today. Simple pleasures my friends. Simple pleasures.