staceybooks

It’s 4:17 a.m. and I’ve officially reached that point where I’m not sure if I’m sweating or if the hotel air conditioning is just staging a mutiny against the fan I set to “High” in a desperate attempt to drown out my own thoughts. Spoiler alert: the fan lost. It whines like a mosquito stuck in a mason jar, loud enough to irritate me but not enough to actually block out the mental chaos that’s been playing reruns in my brain all night.

I haven’t slept. Not even fake-slept. You know, that moment where you pretend your eyes are closed and you’re resting but you’re actually planning three nonprofit initiatives, mentally budgeting grant funds, questioning if that one coworker meant something shady in that email, and wondering if TSA will harass you for the fifth time this year because, yes, I still don’t have my RealID.

I meant to get it. I even went to the DMV once. But you know how that goes. One forgotten piece of mail and you’re suddenly questioning your entire identity and why proof of residency requires the soul of your firstborn.

And now, thanks to my procrastination and the very real drama of government ID requirements, I’m flying commercial out of D.C. with a paper license, a prayer, and a neck pillow that will absolutely not save me from the awkward armrest war with a stranger named Dave.

Let’s not forget why I’m even here. A conference. The kind where everyone smiles too much before coffee and insists on using phrases like “ecosystem synergy” before 8 a.m. I’ve already peopled more than I should have in one week. My introvert battery is flashing red. And if one more person asks me how to braid workforce funding streams while I’m clutching a granola bar and trying to breathe, I might actually just lay down in the vendor aisle and play dead.

Also, can we stop with the drama? Just collectively, can we all agree that no one has time for it? I’m too sleep-deprived to fake smile through nonsense and too close to menopause to regulate my internal body temperature.

At this point, all I want is a smooth flight, a lukewarm overpriced airport coffee, and to be wrapped up in my husband’s arms like a human burrito with no expectations except sleep until Tuesday.

Until then, I’ll be in this hotel room, sticking my leg out from under the covers like a temperature-regulating starfish, whispering “Why am I like this” into the void.

RealID pending. Sleep nonexistent. Flight boarding in five hours.

Let’s ride.