Friday afternoon decompression

I should be asleep, I know.

It’s nearly 1 o’clock — way past my bedtime — and I’ve had a truly exhausting week.

The dog is already in Morpheus’ realm, snoring near my desk, urging me to follow suit.

I have no doubt the bed is comfortable, the covers warm and the pillows soft. There’s a Kindle on the nightstand with a virtual bookmark holding my place in a tome I’ve been rereading with pleasure. But I’m not quite ready to climb the stairs, undress and recline.

There’s so much I want to do: boxes to unpack, treats to bake, stories to write, books to read, animals to pet, laundry to do. Yet sleep is the wisest course of action.

Still I hesitate. The work week is done. My errands are complete. Rain is pattering against the windows. I just made a cup of tea, and I’m finally able to breathe.

* There’s a Calvin-esque part of me that emerges after rain storms. I see a big puddle and I just feel the need to jump.

* There’s another part of me that hopes for some sort of time or place travel to occur when I splash into dark puddles.

* I can’t kill bugs that crunch. Doing so just creeps me out.

* I like hot tea and iced tea, but I don’t like when hot tea goes cold.

* Two years ago, my eye doctor said I needed bifocals. Despite my reservations (which foolishly involved me feeling old), I took her advice and bought a pair. When it was time to renew my prescription, I explained that my eyes had never really adapted to the bifocals and that I wanted straight specs instead. Turns out, she was right and I was wrong, and that’s why I’ve spent the past year squinting and removing my glasses to read anything.