I’m just really tired and writing nonsense and my brain is mush. 

With the blink of an eye, the weekend is over. 7 days straight of work– my 9-5’er and teaching yoga. So pardon my French when I type out “I am tired as f*ck.” My morning routine comes down to showering (if I wake up on time), throwing sea salt and lavender spray in my hair, a dab of amber oil, and finding whatever’s clean to wear on my slow-moving body. I do my best to not snooze my alarm twelve times, but if only the work day started at 11AM, I would feel OK about it being Monday.

It’s not as bad as it was when I turned 25, but I’ve hit another divine bump in the road and this one shakes me to my core. I know I should be grateful, expressing a thankful heart for what I’ve been given and what I’ve achieved. I should thank my lucky stars I work where I do and receive the kind of benefits I have, but at the end of the day, it is unfulfilling. I may get paid a decent salary, but I don’t believe I’m compensated enough for what I do. A majority of the day is responding to email after email. Full conversations between computers when our offices are a mere thirty-five steps from one another. Overworked. Overwhelmed. Is this what the work space has become?

As I drove into work this morning, I sat in traffic and glanced at the driver next to me. In every car I looked into, the faces seemed worn out. Shoulders slumped over as the Monday Blues pressed into our backs. Downing coffee like our bodies now run on only caffeinated drinks. Hating everything about anything at a job we’re only happy with on pay days and even THAT is debatable. 

I am exhausted as I type this. Even my fingers press the keys with a certain lackluster as if writing doesn’t give me the joy it once did. All of the things I love to do are slowly being washed out by the noise of work emails, meaningless data, and projects I only really care about when I’ve procrastinated to the point where I need to finish this. 

For an hour and fifteen minutes, I sat on the couch in my therapist’s office opposite of her and just let all the frustration out–the hours, the lack of accountability, the entitlement, the people in power who genuinely have no idea what goes on at the lower levels of any organization. And what was it all for? What did it amount to? Was this work MEANINGFUL? 

“That’s called adulthood,” and then my therapist laughed out loud as soon as she said it. I laughed, too, because she’s right. But is there also a way out? 

For most of us, we will never be that person with the fashionable wardrobe and bank account to support worldwide travel. We will never live on beachfront property and make money off one post on Instagram for advertising new snorkeling gear. We will never be mermaids. We will never wear white and NOT spill on it. I swear, even on my wedding day, I will probably look like I rolled around with pigs in a pen. 

And I have to be OK with that. 

But I also cannot settle for the mundane, humdrum routine of getting up, going to work, paying bills, and repeating it all over again. 

I finally understand why I’ve come to my yoga mat so many times in the past few weeks–it’s what I need to stay connected to my truth, my authentic self. It’s what saves me from the world of adulting. I’m not afraid to grow up, but I am afraid of losing my sense of curiosity, my sense of adventure, a need to get up and go, and lately, those moments of elation are fleeting. So what’s the remedy? What’s the solution? 

I finish this piece in my bed with heavy eyelids and a sobering outlook on where I’m headed. Anywhere but the ordinary, I think. Anywhere but a windowless office and swivel chair. I wrap up this piece with no conclusion. No sunny thoughts of hope or promise or “can do” quips. There isn’t any room for that at the moment. 

I’m so f*cking tired that my tights were on backwards today and I’ve taken more Clonapin in the last six days than I care to count but it’s going to be OK. It has to be OK. Are we going to be OK? 

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