“I’ve got the brain of a four year old. I’ll bet he was glad to be rid of it.”
– Groucho Marx
Apparently, without my knowledge, consent, or approbation, my brain has thrown up its metaphorical hands and decided it’s going on holiday now, the next five days be damned.
My Christmas shopping is done, the presents are (mostly) wrapped, many of them have gone out in the mail, the place card holders for Pieter and Sadie’s wedding are done, and the list of things for her bacherlorette party is done. “Therefore,” my brain thought decisively to itself, “I am done. There is nothing else that I am taking care of until January, and you can’t make me!”
The symptoms of this revolt have been acute and worrying. I tried to do some last minute shopping in Barnes and Nobel the other day when I suddenly felt tired. Spying one of the rarely vacant armchairs was unoccupied, I sat down for a second. Five minutes later I woke up (gasping and clutching my purse in belated panic), but unscathed.
Yesterday I got a quick lunch with a co-worker, which I couldn’t finish so I decided to save in the department fridge for lunch today. This morning, I woke up thinking I’d forgotten to pack a lunch the night before and dashed around the kitchen trying to throw things together at the last moment. Only to get to work and remember that I have a lunch date with Savvy today. So I have a carton of Chinese food and a tupperware of chicken soup sitting pretty in the break room that will just have to come back home with me today.
I’ve lost my keys in my own hand and my glasses on my head. I’ve gone to the library to return things, only to to realize I’ve left the books on the kitchen table. I walk into rooms and completely space why I entered them in the first place.
It’s grim, possums. A vacation is clearly required. Two more days of work, one wedding, and I can check out. In the meantime, is anyone else sliding into a holiday coma, or have I just well and truly shorted out?