I've been sick the past few days. Sore throat, stuff nose, and absolutely no energy. I was feeling so draggy that I stayed home from work yesterday and today, knowing I could still dial in on the conference calls and thereby not miss anything. Not, mind you, that there's much to miss this week anyway. We're still in thumb-twiddle mode, waiting for the powers-that-be on this project to make decisions on what we can work on, and when we can start again.
Granted this has worked out well in my favor. It means I can actually be sick without worrying over what I'm going to have to spend extra time making up when I get back. It means I've also had time to make all the phone calls necessary to arrange for the move. And being home meant that I could have movers come over to do estimates for how much they'll charge to take all our stuff, stash it in a big truck, drive it 20 miles, and then unload it (a lot, by the way. It will cost a lot. Ouch).
I've had a low-grade fever - probably the reason I've been so exhausted - and all I want to do is to curl up and take a nap. The problem is that my mind is racing too fast and I can't sleep. Last night I lay awake all night, trying desperately to make my brain shut up. I curled up on the sofa, hoping that the lurking in the quietest place in the house might do the trick, but no luck. I lay there trying to think of absolutely nothing, and meanwhile my uncooperative brain jumped merrily from topic to topic. Remember that odd little doctor from the play Arsenic and Old Lace, and while we're on that subject, let's recap the little old ladies singing at their basement funerals, shall we? Counting sheep? No, no, let's count boxes instead - how many more do you think we need for books and then there's all the rest of the stuff. Where are we going to put the third cat tree? Against that wall in the living room, but then that leaves an orphan bookshelf, unless that goes...no..maybe...hmm. How long did the neighborhood rules say we can live there without having the front yard landscaped and do we get special compensation for moving in in spring when every gardener in the surrounding three counties is triple booked?
Of course, insomnia at least means I'm not jerking awake from my current stress dream-of-choice - the one where we're barreling down the freeway and all the cars in front slam on their brakes but we're not stopping and I wake up seconds before we slam into them.
But still, if I could just get some sleep, I'd feel better. There's too much to do and not enough time to do it. And I'm so tired. So very very tired.
Did the insulation guys finish the attic? Where are we going to put the cat food and water bowls?
Make it stop. Please, just let me not think. Just for one night.