What if I'm just tired?

Sage advice from your pillow

I’m a samurai packer, and it still takes me 30 percent longer than I anticipate to finally zip my suitcase the night before departure. Another truth of travel is when I set my alarm for 4:05 a.m., my body will wake up every hour, on the hour, then it will take me 50 minutes to fall back asleep. For 10 minutes, I will panic dream that I have missed my alarm, then I will wake up again, just on queue. 

Recently, I was driving from Santa Cruz to Los Angeles after a week of Thanksgiving festivities. It’s a six-hour drive, and there was no real reason I had to set my alarm for 4:05 a.m., no big meeting I had to attend or movie star that got stuck in a tree and needed coaxing down. I just set my alarm at 4:05 a.m. for the masochistic flogging. I stopped at a Starbucks in Paso Robles, Santa Barbara, and some sad, grey complex along the 405. By the time I arrived home, I was thoroughly tweaked out from the coffee and three straight Sam Harris podcasts, where he spoke in great detail about the ethical implications of pushing an obese man into a trolly car.

When I stepped through my door and saw my wilted Bird of Paradise, I realized everyone hates me. Also, the first draft of my book, which is nearly finished, is complete donkey shit. The only logical next step is to print out the manuscript, drive to San Fransisco, where trolly cars still run, and tell the obese man to step aside as I hurl myself into the breakaway trolly, manuscript clutched to my chest. My attempt would fail, naturally, and the trolly would barrel down the hill into the Embarcadero. The six bystanders would easily step out of the way, and my blood-soaked manuscript would blow away in the wind and be used as a nest for pigeons. 

Then I took a 20-minute nap, opened my eyes, and realized something important: I don’t own a Bird of Paradise. I own a Monstera. 

Next time you start to spiral, ask yourself: What if I’m just tired?