Last Saturday I was asked how I was going to survive the next day or so.  The person asking knew that I had been having headaches as a result of long days.  My answer was something along the lines of, “I have good medication and I know that I will need to crash and have found a good place to do so.”  He seemed surprised by this reply.

I still can’t think of what other reply I could have given.  I knew what I had chosen and committed to doing; I knew that my body was not entirely on page I wanted it to be.  If there had been someone else who could have done some part of the rest of my commitments, I probably would have tried to step back a bit and let/ask/beg them to do more.  But there wasn’t.  And I was fine.  By the end of the weekend, I had reached a level of tired that I don’t enjoy.  And, just as I don’t know what other reply I could have given, I don’t know what other path I could have chosen.

I had a great weekend and I’m glad I did every bit of it.  It wasn’t the perfect weekend.  But my life, much as I love it, isn’t the perfect life.   It’s just mine.