Tired

“You look tired,” she said. 

It was meant as an observation, not a criticism, yet, it landed deep in that part of me that doesn’t want to be tired or look tired or feel tired at all. It landed there and settled in, uncomfortably knotting into the fabric of me, furthering the frustration that made me tired in the first place.

I have tiny eyes that show the puffiness that comes from sleep interrupted by anxious thoughts. I’m not much for vanity, but I know when I don’t look vibrant. Pointing it out only extenuates the lines that would be lessened if I drank more water, slept a solid seven hours or stopped the beautifully inevitable signs of ageing. Burnout is not a good look.

I nodded, a silent acknowledgement that I knew I looked tired and that yes, I know better than to run myself down, and yes, I should make time to rest. Priorities, Kelly.  Knowing it doesn’t make doing it any easier. If it was simple to just stop, kick back and rest, didn’t she think I’d be doing it? 

It’s hard to take advice on slowing down from someone who doesn’t walk in my running shoes.

I thought about stating the obvious, but stopped short. It would only hurt her feelings. She didn’t mean to offend. In truth, she was concerned. Not too concerned to stop herself from asking for a favour, mind you. 

What is it they say? Always ask a busy person for a favour because they get stuff done. 

Amen. Get in line. 

I offered a weak smile, closed lips stretched in a crooked line, eyes turned to look out the window. I let the favour request hang in the air while she talked about her yoga classes, recent shopping excursions, vacation plans. I watched the traffic rush past the window, wondering where I’d go if I could disappear for just one day.

No matter how much we talk about mental health, this is a culture of go-go-go. Keep up. Get it done. Show up. Punch in. I’m guilty of perpetuating this myth. I’m aware. 

So I’ve stopped telling people to slow down. I think we all pause when we feel we can, but we have to admit there are times when we simply can’t. Life. Ebb and flow.  It is what it is. All of it temporary.

I don’t know if I envied her existence, or was just confused trying to figure out why some live so differently than others. Haves. Have-nots. Haven’t got a clue. 

Don’t compare yourself, Kelly. Everyone has a story. You don’t know what it cost her to get those Air Miles. I know that. I do. See? I can’t even resent her selfishness, though I did silently wish for her to get a toenail fungus. Something curable but embarrassing on a yoga mat. Namaste (come on, you smiled too). 

I swallowed the remainder of my black coffee and, thanking her for her time, reminded her I had to get back to work. I placed my half of the tab on the table.

“Get some rest,” she said to me through a maternal smile. I nodded. Sure thing. 

 Maybe you relate. Maybe you don’t. Maybe you’re checking your toenails for fungus. All I know is, this too shall pass. It’s a January thing. 

 I need more walks in the woods. Self care. Priorities, Kelly. 

I know. 

WriteOut of Her Mind