It’s a rare day when I admit I am so tired I feel fried. I hit the wall on Monday, made evident as I was too tired to drive to Walla Walla for my morning tennis game. My mind and body just went on strike.

It became evident how tired I was when I did laundry without detergent. Next, I forgot to close the top of the machine on the rewash. The drain cycle was interrupted, and I was left with extra heavy, wet clothes to do the third time.

Even Mugsy seems exhausted as he’s been sleeping later than usual – on the good side, it also lets me sleep in. This morning, after we finally crept out of bed and to our respective bathrooms (mine indoors, his out), I fed him, made myself a coffee, and just stared out the back door, immobile.

My morning caffeine gave me enough energy to start some brainless chores. The list included cleaning up from last night’s dinner under the pergola, unloading the dishwasher, and mopping (sort of) the floor before taking a break to stand on the deck and watch birds, immobile.

In retrospect, the week had been a little overwhelming and harried, including a drive to and from Seattle, hours of tennis in the sun and heat, dinner parties–both attended and thrown, gardening, cleaning up the mess from Daniel’s last-minute packing, drinks, shopping, and dumplings at Royal Block, perusing the Waitsburg Art Garden, figuring out my trip to meet Daniel in July, getting ready for my Los Angeles guests this Friday and my trip to Los Angeles next week, and, of course, my day job that pays a salary. The list goes on; I don’t, too fried.

There was little good news in all this exhaustion. I had been too tired to even think of cooking anything for myself; I’d even lost a few pounds. That night, I decided to cook some French fries and douse them with ketchup. It seemed the perfect way to end a day of feeling “fried and catching up.”