mess.

My life is a hot mess.

Papers, books, magazines, bills, week old newspapers, an entire past forest litters my living room. Interspersed between all of the fallen trees are half empty cups, snacks and hair ties.

My bed is an assortment as well. I shove over the interview notes for today’s story, my laptop, rejected outfits to pull my grandmother’s quilt over me for a quick nap.

The sun is still peeking through my tightly closed shades but I can ignore it for the present.

I am sick.

Again.

This seems to be the year for sickness. No family members anywhere near.

My body has finally rejected the late nights, worrisome hours and long days at the newsroom and has quit. Or perhaps it’s only gone on strike asking for additional vacation days and better working conditions.

 

Fine.

But I’m not cleaning my apartment.

Right now, five and a half hours away, there are two women settling into a hotel room for the night. My mother and grandmother are on their way here. Just knowing that they are less than a day’s drive away already makes me feel better. Healthier. Like my old self.

Mom McClane (as we’ll call her here) is the woman who calls me and demands I eat. She demands vacations, rest and relaxation for this tired body of mine. Let’s just call her the union rep.

And apparently, she’s had enough.

It was that or the panicked call I put in late Monday afternoon – so very tired of another doctor’s visit and more tests to run.

My life is a hot mess.

My apartment is only a bit cleaner. At least, there are only two dishes in the sink and I threw out those bad grapes.

Sometimes we need our bodies to shut down. Demand a day off to remember what the sunshine feels like, how pages of books feel between the fingers and why again we live.

I love the newsroom.

But I love life better.