So, things are about to get real. Let's just begin with this little confession... I stink at resting. I know I need it, but I struggle with not working, or scrolling through Twitter, when I'm supposed to be taking a hiatus from all things social media. This has become such a problem that I find myself opening my email without realizing I'm doing it. It's become second nature, and when I finally connect my brain to my actions, I'm already in the act of reading through my slush pile.
Workaholic. I never thought I'd become one. I used to rest. Okay, if I'm being real, I was lazy, y'all. If lounging was a sport, I was an olympian. Gold medal, even. I could give sloths lessons on how to take it slow, but ever since I became a mom, rest kind of flew out the window... along with my abs.
When I stopped resting, my immune system struck back. I got sick every weekend. That is not an exaggeration. Every. Freaking. Weekend. I would work five days and spend the two days over the weekend recuperating. It was misery, and not to mention annoying to my spouse and kids. I was the lady with the Kleenex at Disneyland. The woman sniffling and popping Dayquil like it was a vitamin. Yep, that was my normal, but not anymore.
This past year, I came to an epiphany. What if my illnesses stemmed from my inability to allow my body the rest it needed to heal? Genius, right? I should get like some sort of award for the most obvious realization in the world. Seriously, it has taken me ten years to comprehend that I need rest. Ten years!
So, you'd think that since I made this epic discovery I would be resting with the best of them. Right? Wrong! Remember how I began this post? I stink at resting. Like limburger cheese stench. It's like in those moments of scheduled sabbath, everything that is messy begins to happen in my home. Dust bunnies form protest lines in front of my TV stand, dog hair dances across my freshly vacuumed floor, and my brain won't shut up. Then, my husband has this tremendous idea. "You should take a nap, Babe."
A NAP! Oh my gosh, I get to take a nap. This is something I long for in the middle of my work day on Monday. A nap! Yes, I will take a nap. So, I close my eyes to begin said nap, and for some reason my mind begins sorting through every memory I've ever made, focusing in on the umpteenth time I've embarrassed myself in public. I toss. I turn. My hair tickles my face. I pull it back into a braid. Said braid causes an uncomfortable lump on the back of my head. My sweats creep up my ankle, and let's not get me started on my dang socks. Why does one always find a way to creep off my foot? No, a nap is not the answer. Netflix is!
I grab the remote control, pull another pillow behind my head, and get ready to watch all of the shows I've been craving to view. Except. Except. Nothing. I can't find one darn show I want to watch. So, I scroll. I scroll. I scroll. For an hour. Finally, I end up watching some show about killers on death row. My eyes begin to get heavy. Yes! I think I can finally nap. My eyes close. My mind finally shuts up. I'm about to doze off. I can feel the sweetness of this slumber. My limbs begin to relax, and then, bam! My cat Jumps on my stomach. Right onto my uterus. I swear she knows exactly where my lady parts connect together inside of me. I groan, push my ninja cat gently to the side, and climb out of my bed. As I walk down the stairs, I see my husband playing Fortnight on our downstairs computer.
"How was your nap?" he asks.
I stare at him blankly. Tears brim my eyes. All I want to do is rest. How do I do that? I wish I had the answer. Maybe, like anything else in life, it just takes practice. So, next weekend, I'm going to try again. I'm going to figure this rest thing out because I know its important. I know my body needs it. I just wish it'd cooperate a bit more.