I went to bed at 6pm last night.
This was a bad idea. It’s now 7am the following day, I have been up for four hours and I feel sick. It was fun at first, being startled awake at 3am by guilt that struck through me like a defibrillator. I jumped out of bed, turned my upstairs and downstairs radios on to make it feel like daytime, and began running around the house being desperately productive.
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I’ve done the obvious things: stripped my sheets, vacuumed, done a pile of dishes I was putting off. But I’ve also framed a series of prints and photographed some shoes I’ve been meaning to sell.
The list of errands I’ve been avoiding doing for the past half decade is far longer than this — originally sold to myself as ‘Things I’ll get round to after the Rio Olympics’, it’s now just an assortment of meaningless words, list-esque in nature, which serve no practical purpose but to taunt me — but for a fleeting moment this morning I felt pretty good about my start on it.
That lasted until I bonked 20 minutes ago and it’s pretty clear I’m done being productive. I feel ill with tiredness and I’m very seriously considering going back to bed. I shouldn’t tell you this, should it undermine the sincerity of my writing, but I’ve made a deal that if I finish my column that’s exactly what I’ll do. The sun hasn’t even risen yet.
It’s possible the reason I am feeling so tired is that I wasn’t wearing my Fitbit last night. In line with the bicycle computer rule that if there’s no file of your ride you weren’t riding at all — if I didn’t track my sleep was I even in bed? I love tracking stuff.
I do it intermittently with food; on training camps we track our hydration levels; in the gym I now use equipment that tracks the lifts I do; and recently I’ve gotten really into budgeting and tracking how I spend money. There’s nothing left to track any more.
How quickly my fingernails have grown?
How often I’ve farted? Ideas are scarce.
But that’s all for another day. Right now I’ve got a very important two-hour power nap to attend to.