A Realization

I am not a very strong man.

I have worked somewhere between 130 and 140 hours in the past two weeks. Truth is I'm not exactly sure how many, but I have had one day off.

I AM NOT COMPLAINING.

I am not complaining, first, because hey, I have a job. Second, because several other people have worked more than I have...some of them quite a bit more. My boss has been putting in minimum twelve hour days, seven days a week, since early February. And third, some of the people who are putting in yeoman's hours aren't getting paid a damn cent more than usual, on account of their being salaried. I am a full time worker, unsalaried: I'm getting paid for every hour I work.

And fourth: maybe this is silly, but I'm excited. FreshCo is a giant leap forward over Price Chopper. The store doesn't just look good, it looks great. It's now my job, in part, to keep it that way...which means this was just the beginning...but we have a solid team in place and it's going to be fun.

But I am not a very strong man.

I have reached what I hope is the limit of tiredness. I'm too tired to fall asleep and a damned sight too tired to stay awake, and so I exist, shadowless, in the space between. Reality is fuzzy. Thoughts schluch, as if through mud. My tang is tungled; my hands turn traitor, my balance is occasionally...not. And here it is three in the afternoon. If I permit myself the luxury of a nap, I envision one of three outcomes:

• I will wake up totally refreshed and ready to kick the ass of the world...at eleven p.m. I will then be awake all night and face the entire city tomorrow half dead, or;
• I will be jolted awake in ninety minutes--on account of I have to go get some pants today as jeans are no longer acceptable*. I will be in no wise refreshed, and will be apt to bite the head off the first person I meat and chew it contentedly as I settle back to slumber, or;
• I might not wake up at all. That'd be the dead part of me talking. Pay it no mind and I promise to try to do the same.

Here's the thing: I know people, many people, for whom the past two weeks as I have described them would be a walk in the park. Hell, I got almost seven hours of sleep last night...not that it feels like it at all, mind. That has been the case almost every night through this horrid period, seven, sometimes eight hours of rest. And yet I am bone-weary, sometimes seeing the world as if through thick gauze. Why am I so weak? I haven't been awake (much) more than usual, and my job isn't rocket surgery, nor is it extremely laborious. I haven't been sick, although right now it feels like I might be getting sick...nothing about thirty hours of pillow therapy couldn't cure, but still.

Man up, buddy, I tell myself, and yawn huge, man-sized yawns.

Tomorrow: opening day. I only hope my eyes will open for business before the store does.

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* Jeans are no longer acceptable attire. Here's how out of touch I am: do they make anything else half as durable? I'm hard on pants; I spend a good chunk of every day on bended knee (and please, no cracks from the peanut gallery). Denim I trust; all else, to me, is dresswear. Heading on over to Mark's Work Wearhouse to be set straight.