I'm tired.

Wrung, is probably closer to the physical consequence of a week spent up to my ankles in snot ... those very same ankles being the ones covered in clinging, whiny, grumpy, bored, cantankerous snot-factories: AKA Sam and Cj.

In addition to my mucus-encrusted appendages exerting extra drag, therefore requiring more of an output of energy than it normally takes to get through a day, the work load has been bumped by the fact that the month is February, so short, yet still due the 86 blog posts a 31 day month gets, and I'm behinder than I'd like to be on work that needs to be done soon.

And didn't I just know I'd start clogging up in the nasal area myself? The writing appeared on the wall about the time Sam sniffed his first sniffle. A sore throat and a heavy chest (having nothing to do with my wonky boobs, thankyouverymuch) have now joined the party, and I'm feeling more than a little like waste matter ... wrung waste matter. Yuck.

Because I write this blog, I put myself through the mental exercise of conjuring a younger version of myself in hopes of juxtaposing that me against this me and comparing wrungness ... was I more able to take snot wallowing in toddler-sized ankle weights while succumbing to rhino viruses and drowning in work at 25 than 55?

Since I had little kids then, too, it's an assessment I can fairly make, even with 30 years spanning the divide ... memory being the second thing to go with old age.

My honest evaluation? Mox nix. Same, same. Tired is tired, and sick is sick, and although I may not looks as fresh-as-a-daisy young as I did blowing my 25-year-old nose, I'm still just as able to get through the day, take care of my kids and get my work done as I was three decades ago.

Continued ...