Holy Hannah, am I tired.
Optimistically, or foolishly, depending whom you consult, I really thought I’d need a day or three to adjust to being back in Canada. Sadly, I am not yet on board with Mountain Time. I’ve been to bed early every night this week, and I’m taking a hefty dose of melatonin to keep me out once I fall asleep (correction, I plummet asleep right now) and despite a good eight or nine hours a night, I’m not feeling rested at all.
I haven’t overlooked the fact that teaching is demanding, particularly in the spring when the youth are extra
pesky perky, but it seems odd to me to feel like I’m going through my days wearing a forty pound suit and dragging a canoe filled with bowling balls. By the time 3:20 inches up on me, I’m so relieved at getting to dismiss my students that every day feels like the last before summer. My tasks after the kids are gone, like photocopying or calling parents, are positively painful because all I can think about is crawling into bed, or at the very least hauling my sorry carcass to the living room couch.
Yesterday, I tried to accelerate into the intersection after the light changed green, and my engine just revved enthusiastically while the Element went nowhere. It seems I shifted back to park when I stopped at the light, and didn’t realize it. You’ll be relieved to know I drove home with no gear shift shenanigans today, but I felt no less pleased to finally return to the dollhouse.
Jet lag lasts for a varied stretch, depending on the source of the advice. Some say it takes one day at home for every day you were away before you feel “on schedule” again. Others state I will need one day of recovery for every hour of time difference I was experiencing on vacation. Best case scenario, I’m going to feel like crap for fifteen days from Friday the 6th, or for just eleven if the second calculation is more accurate. I have a strong suspicion teaching teenagers adds an exponent of some variety to the recovery period.
Now, it’s just shy of eight in the evening, and I have a class set of personal essays calling my name. The responsible teacher in me knows they have to be marked, so I’m going to go be a grown up and soldier through, but there is a major part of me –ninety some percent– that just wants to put on my jammies and lay my head on my pillow.
On the plus side, it’s the first night since Sunday I haven’t had a crushing headache by this time of night. Things may be looking up, my friends!
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