Can’t I write my final scene which is already laid out pretty well in a spiral notebook which has been open on my desk for a couple of weeks or so now?
Can’t I write the essay that should be the result of the interview I conducted a couple of weeks ago?
Can’t I clean up my room from the buckets that should be switched seasonal clothes and back in the attic for a few weeks now?
Can’t I get it together to practice tai chi, yoga, take my walks, or engage in any regular form of exercise?
Can’t I plan a dinner beyond the five minutes before I cook it?
Because I’m pooped, that’s why.
Because I can’t keep one strain of thought going when I turn around to leave the room to go do that thing, what was it – I was going to leave the room to do.
Because I’d rather read a book, even if I can only manage three pages at a time.
Because I’d rather cuddle the baby who kept me up all night again, as she drowsily skips her nap, again.
And that’s why I’m so pooped.