This is less a post than a mood.

I’m tired. 

I’m still wearing the same eye makeup I put on Saturday. 

My co-worker told me I looked tired this morning. I told her I was, indeed, tired. But it might be the smudged eyeliner.

Friday went until 11:15 pm at a ball field. Saturday was another day of softball, windblown and sunburned. Sunday was a rainy drive to a volleyball tournament, then a rainy drive home.

In between, I washed clothes and watched basketball. Three sports in one weekend.

Then there is the week ahead: more ballgames, more meetings, more driving. It makes me tired just thinking about it.

The weather makes me tired. It got chilly again today, and it’s still drizzling after raining over two inches yesterday. 

Everyone at the grocery store this afternoon is wearing the same expression. We are all tired.

But the grocery store is doing well. There are more people here than on the day before Thanksgiving. Maybe the weather has put us back into hibernation mode.

I grab my items quickly, no buggy needed. It feels like the depths of winter again, although the greening trees are bright against the cloudy purple skies. If the blackberries were blooming, we would say it is blackberry winter, but that’s yet to come. 

It’s like the world is waking up from a long sleep, and we could all use a second cup of coffee.

The lady in line ahead of me could have invited me home with her. We could gloriously hibernate: she’s got (in order of importance) cheese straws, pimento cheese, bakery fresh sourdough bread, and several TV dinners. On the other hand, I’m dreaming of walking in the door to my husband finishing up some Hamburger Helper, or making peanut butter and banana sandwiches, or laying out all the available cereal boxes on the counter like a grand buffet.

I’m too tired to cook. 

The lady slowly turns around and makes eye contact. Her brown eyes droop at the corners. “Is there some kind of weather warning I don’t know about?” she asks.

“No, ma’am,” I reply. Every line in the small grocery store was stacked at least four or five deep. She and I have the good fortune of choosing the aisle with the person who needs to use sixty-seven different payment methods to cash in her digital coupons.

We wait a while. The cashier calls a manager, who looks tired as she furrows her brow and punches buttons on the register. 

The lady turns to me again. “I get to hurting if I stand too long,” and she mumbles something else I can’t understand. Her arms are covered with liver spots.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I hope you feel better soon.”

“I’m just old,” she said.

“We’re all getting old, especially at this rate.” I smile at her, and she smiles back.

The register to the left opens and is quickly taken by a lady who had been waiting just behind me, her and all her ice cream. No selfless offer to me to go ahead, a woman who had been waiting longer, all while holding a bag of celery, a can of spaghetti sauce, a carton of beef broth, a green bell pepper, and a box of macaroni. 

I wouldn’t have taken her offer anyway.

The line begins moving again, and soon I am in my vehicle with my five items.

My friend drives past me in her truck. I hope she isn’t hurting anymore.

I cook soup. It is my own version of a vegetable beef soup, except with frozen Italian meatballs. It was nice to dump them in, considering how tired I was. I was saving them for a rainy day, and this one happens to be perfect. I make bruschetta with some leftover jalapeno cheese bread, bought on a work trip last week. I gather some lettuce and oregano from the garden, the first harvest of the spring.

I grate some fresh parmesan on top of my soup. I could have used the stuff in the plastic container, but it’s more akin to dandruff.

I eat supper with my husband who will cook banana sandwiches another night.

And then I pile up and write about how I’m still tired, but quite satisfied.

Maybe it’s time to take off that eye makeup now.