I think that's just shy of a coma

Despite having a more flexible schedule these days, I still get up for the 5:30 am CrossFit class. 

(Don't worry. I sense my own craziness, which is a good sign that I have only MOSTLY gone off the deep end.)

Of course other than being crazy, I also have a desire to maintain at least the semblance of a routine, and I also receive a daily threat of having a shoe thrown at my head by my CF buddy, Heather, should I switch classes. 

I don't know about you, but I don't want a shoe thrown at my head.

With my current schedule, I haven't had the sense of urgency to get to bed each night. Before the lay off, I used to get to bed at about 9 P.M. each night. I realize this puts me in the category usually reserved for the elderly and children under the age of ten, but a girl has to get her beauty sleep! 

Now, even though I'm not (nor have I ever been) much of a napper, there is a sense of freedom in my schedule. A sense that I could take a nap should I need one. So now I read a bit longer, talk on the phone longer, check my email longer, or watch TV longer without the "I-must-get-to-sleep-NOW" feeling I had before. 

I didn't think this was a problem. But this weekend I did something that I haven't done in a LONG time. From Saturday night to Sunday morning, I slept for over thirteen hours. 

THIRTEEN. HOURS. 

This was shocking to me. I didn't realize I was that tired. I didn't know my body was capable of sleeping past six am, let alone for a Baker's Dozen's worth of hours. In my groggy wake-up state, I did time math for about fifteen minutes to confirm that I had achieved what I thought was, for me, impossible. 

This was my body's very polite way of saying to me, "Shannon, you've been through a lot and need to get more sleep." 

OK. I hear you, me. More sleep. Got it.