This morning, for the first time in a long time, I woke up happy.
I really don’t know why. Maybe it was the after effects of Connor’s choir concert last night. He had a really great time, everybody sounded fantastic, and one of his friends braided his hair backstage before the finale.
Maybe it was because I got a good amount of sleep—deep sleep, anyway. I didn’t get any more overall sleep than I usually do, but I got a lot more deep sleep than normal, if my Apple Watch is to be believed.
At any rate, whatever it was stayed with me all day. I’m not complaining. It really was weird, though: I felt almost normal. I didn’t feel like I was dragging. I didn’t feel that pressing strangeness of this menopause body I’ve been dealing with. I stood up straight and tall all day. I wasn’t tired.
My inner critic never spoke up out of turn. I didn’t guilt trip myself. I didn’t end up playing on my phone to escape boredom.
I want to capture this feeling of okay-ness and bottle it up for later.
I’m actually sitting outside as I write this. Connor is off at the karate dojo, helping out with the kids program. One of his friends who just got a car is going to be driving him home afterward, so that means my evening is completely and utterly free.
Every time this Connor goes out on a Friday, I never know what to do with myself. It’s a little bit silly, but when Connor’s not here, I actually feel a little bit lonely.
Even so, as I’m sitting outside in the evening air, feeling just a little bit lonely, and maybe a little out of sorts, I still don’t feel that usual weight of depression. Maybe it’s because I’m outside. Maybe it’s the angle of the sun and the change of the season. Whatever it is, though, I hope it sticks around. I’m tired of being tired.