Among the many reasons I have had for not developing a taste for coffee, its inherent wimpiness has always been a strong one. It always seemed to me like it would be embarrassing to confess (as many people proudly do) that one cannot get out the door in the morning without the aid of artificial stimulants.
This week, I need artificial stimulants. I am rediscovering the truth that a sleep deficit works like a monetary deficit--if you run up a large debt, and then return to your barely-getting-by state of existence, you will never get caught up. This is also my first move where I have no born organizer standing at my shoulder telling me how to do it. No, this time I must think. And my head hurts, probably because I whacked it on the towel bar at 4 a.m.
Last night, as I was rejoicing in the strength and comfort to be found in a bowl of vanilla fudge swirl, DOB pointed out that I need to give myself permission, when necessary, to administer chocolate medicinally when alone. I don't eat for fun while I'm alone. When I'm alone, I eat cold leftovers and raw fruits and vegetables spread with peanut butter, and just enough to keep from keeling over. Chocolate should be savored with a very good friend.
Today, I needed help. I could barely keep my head upright and the piano movers were coming at 10:30. (We helpfully cleared a path to the patio door, only to have them decide the ground was too wet and they had to go out the front, so they moved all the boxes out of the way again to go out the front door.) So I ransacked the cupboards and boldly consumed the stimulants I could find: a cup of black tea and two squares of organic dark chocolate.
Yeah, I'm an amateur. But it got me off the couch.