I woke up to a trail of ants coursing from the ceiling into a sink full of unwashed dishes.
This is when I pay for the past weekend, I thought.
I never was able to have fun at low speeds. It is all or nothing. From zero to 60. I pack it in in strings of events I shouldn’t have time for. Now-a-days, it is a healthy kind. That wasn’t always so.
The past three days were each 12 hours straight of sunshine, live music, tens of thousands of people, heat, serving sandwiches and dancing. My heels are cracked and black. My lungs are full of dust. I’m sunburned. I’m drained. A headache from dehydration pools at my temples. Sometimes fun is exhausting.
It’s nearly 1 p.m. and I’m still in my pajamas. I feel as though the past three days, as ideal as they were at the time, have sucked the energy from me. I’m suddenly looking forward to resuming the normal patterns of eat, work, eat, gym, eat, sleep.
While I was away, my home sat by neglected. I’m still not unpacked from my trip to Denver the previous weekend. My room is a regalia of clean and dirty laundry, draped over baskets and drying racks and in piles on the floor. I’m dreading having to sort that out. My kitchen table and its matching chairs have become a dumping ground for unopened mail and an unpacked backpack and stray clothing and a pile of shoes. I didn’t pay my rent. A vase of dead flowers sits on my fireplace. My floor needs sweeping. My plants need watering. I’m out of milk, toilet paper and coffee. Of the three, coffee is the one I miss the most.
A long list of responsibilities and obligations keep surfacing in my mind, one at a time.
And then there is that pile of dishes. The one that beckoned the ants from the outside in. I beat them back with a can of Raid, only to find them in the doorways of my cabinets. Ants really like cereal.
We’ve had it out before, and I thought I had won. But it only takes three days of a whirlwind music festival for them to find a jackpot in my kitchen, in the mess left over.