It's official. The exhaustion meter has reached the 'stop whatever you're doing and crash' point. I'm in the RED zone. I've discovered over the years that I'm a person who needs a fair bit of down time or I start going squirrelly. Days to myself where I have no external commitments, no internal things for myself that I have to do, and basically no close contact with the outside world except for on a limited, non-stressful, no demands kind of way.
When I hit this stage, even someone asking me to do a quick five minute job can send me over the edge. The worst of it is, I never clue in that I'm approaching the red zone until I'm there, and someone asks me to do something little and it ends up sounding like this huge imposition that will alter the entire course of my existence as I know it. Granted, once I have this reaction I usually am able to step back and go, 'Whoa...Miss Cranky Ass needs some alone time'.
Can I blame that on being a writer? Just put up a sign that says - My creative side needs to regenerate, its feeling burned out. Don't talk to me. Forget I exist for the next 48 hours. Wait, make that 72.
I've hit that stage right now. It's been a hectic few weeks and I'm feeling the sense that I need to just shut down and toddle off somewhere to re-center myself. Sounds very new-agey. Maybe I'll buy some crystals and start to chant. That should keep most of the people away. That should also have my family questioning my sanity, but they're used to that so I should be okay. I may even start munching granola and quoting Proust. I'm not entirely sure who this Proust guy is, but I'm guessing not a lot of those near and dear to me do either, so maybe I can just make something up and then toss off an, 'Oh, that's Proust' with a bit if a high end wave of the hand and pull it off.
Where was I going with this?
Right, time off. I'm tired. I need to sleep late and vegetate on a beach somewhere being served fruity tropical drinks with multi-colored umbrellas sticking out of them. Drinks delivered by a swarthy waiter with a devilish look in his eye. No wait, I don't like swarthy, always sounds like they need a bath. Make that a rugged rock climber who wants to whisk me off to some secluded hideaway. He too can serve me drinks - perhaps a robust red wine of good vintage. We'll keep the devilish look in the eye. And if he's real nice, I may even quote him some Proust.