Waking up has become this epic, agonising struggle of late. I lie in bed, so comfortable, with the sun only just rising through the murky morning sky to glimmer through the window. My cat peers at me intently, as cats do at 5.35am (“Oh good, you’re up! I’ve been staring at you from two inches away for hours now!”) and my alarm jingles incessantly on the floor beside my bed. I start to groan (the wail sending Kitty bounding away from my hideous form at close to light speed) and roll about, thinking: why? WHY? I stumble to the bathroom to stand under my pathetic dribble of a shower, leaning against my slightly slimy tiles (ew) as I wait for the hot water to work its magic.
Usually the shower is like my magic portal to awake-land. Once I was clean I’d bound out, skipping to the coffee machine for my morning cup, singing and busting out the odd high-kick…well not really, but you get what I mean.
But lately even the shower can’t drag me to consciousness like it used to. In fact, I feel as if I don’t really wake up until, oh, say eleven thirty? Twelve? Hometime? Ever?
The strangest part of this whole burnout phenomenon I’m experiencing is that I just had two weeks off earlier this month – so it’s not like I’m in need of a holiday (but then again, aren’t we always in need of a holiday?) And perhaps my tired and my afore-mentioned foul mood are bizarrely and mysteriously related? All I know is: I’m keen to get out of this slump and back to being my bouncy, smiling, annoying self again.
Got any suggestions on how to get my mojo back (ones that don’t involve Jesus or illicit substances)? Are you cursed with a case of the sleeps too? Let me know!