Three weeks of not sleeping in your own bed, moving through multiple time zones, and hotels that only seem to offer Satanic feather pillows that offer as much as support as the Duggars have birth control tend to make a person weary.
That weariness was made plain this morning as we boarded our connecting flight in Atlanta. As the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML made her way into the window seat, her purse brushed the lady in the aisle in front of us. The lady proceeded to flop as if she were playing in the Barclays Premier League. She grabbed her shoulder and writhed as if she had been shot while storming Omaha Beach. Had an attorney been present, I'm quite certain she would have filed suit right then and there. It was ridiculous. Had I been a little less exhausted, I might have asked, nicely, if there was a problem. Instead I wanted to react poorly. I was stopped by my more level-headed companion of twenty-seven years. She reminded me that I was tired and to let it go. For the most part, I did. Let's just say, though, I wouldn't have felt bad had an errant bag from the overhead compartment bonked her on the noggin when we landed. Like I said, exhaustion does funny things to a person.
When we finally landed back in the 'Stan, it felt like we'd just won the Exhaustion Games. I ran the figures in my head as we taxied to the gate. 18 days of travel. 13 states. 3,365 miles of
I'm going to use that burger (the Rasta Monsta, if you were interested) as an omen for 2016. If this year is even half as good as that burger was, it's going to be a great year. For right now though, I'll focus on getting some sleep. Quick nap, some dinner with whatever we can pull together in the house, and then a full night's sleep.
It's back to work tomorrow. Let the great 2016 begin.
