The Seventh Night

Do you ever get so tired that you don't even have any idea you're so tired? I'm not talking about sleepy. I'm not talking about feeling worn out. I'm talking being so tired that on a conscious level you don't even know you're tired.

I could go on with psychobabble that would bore you to tears, but I don't like to leave my readers bored or teary-eyed. Let's just say last night I had the most glorious of nights.

My day job has been one challenge after another these past couple of weeks. I've also been scrambling to get inventory to The Chickadee Boutique, taking care of the usual day-to-day chores and responsibilities, setting up a new bank account, and fidgeting with my online shop while constantly thinking of ways to spruce up my products and increase sales. Doesn't seem so bad when I put it black on white, but it all took its toll.

My body began to rebel, and for two straight days my upper body ached with tension and what I could identify only as adrenaline overload. With Husby picking up take-out Chinese for dinner I had an entire evening ahead of me, in which I chose to do absolutely nothing.

I took the mental vacation of a lifetime, or so it seemed to me. Parked on the couch with a heating pad I let go of everything in my brain. I casually paged through a couple of the magazines I'm about six months behind in reading, watched Jean Michel Cousteau explore the Amazon, and basically just sat back in the luxury of doing nothing substantial. The warmth of the heating pad relaxed me and the pictures in the magazines diverted my thoughts away from production-sales-housework-cooking-product ideas...

It was definitely a much needed and well deserved evening of rest. The best part about it? I didn't feel a lick of guilt, because even God allowed himself a day off. I've taken a vow to give myself one evening a week and devote it to absolutely nothing. At least until the next deadline creeps up on me.