Oh. My. God. I cannot remember a time when I've been as tired as I have been the last month. Do you think it's coincidence that my level of exhaustion escalated right at the same time I began teaching? Me thinks not.
I'm not talking, oh, gee, I could use a brief nap tired. I'm talking aching in my bones, complete and utter exhaustion. T.I.R.E.D. So tired that I can sit down to write and start to doze off with my fingers on the keyboard. So tired that no amount of sleeping in will make up for the level of tired I feel. So tired that I feel like a bull elk at the end of the rut. Say it with me now...T.I.R.E.D!
When we lived in the Rockies we could measure the changing of seasons with the habits of the local wildlife: newborn elk and wapiti deer calves in the spring, golfing with Grizzleys in the early summer, the call of the wolves and coyotes all summer long. Most memorable for me, however, was the 6-8 week period between late August and early October when the male elk enjoyed the ungulate version of Spring Break in Fort Lauderdale. That's right - for 6-8 weeks these big boys lived with the singleminded goal of getting laid as often as possible. No beer required.
Anyway, this time of year is known as "the rut". It's an apt description really - big racked bulls roaming the park, lookin' for love in all the wrong places. Yes, those stupid bulls have been known to try to mount just about any object that doesn't mount them first, including pick-up trucks, trees, and the occasional tourist that got too close with their digital camera!
They'd roam the park shepherding their herd of cows from one love shack to the next. Not only is a male's virility judged by the size of his antler rack, but also by the number of ladies he has in his harem. So those big boys would roam the park with their harem in tow, gettin' it on as often as they can. A bull elk's pick-up line: a series of shrill bugles - that's right - bugles. A sound so indescribable, my words won't do it justice, but imagine someone calling reveille every morning, except they do it out of tune without a melody and they do it all day and all night. An ear-piercing bleating cry that, when sounded outside your bedroom window at 3am, is enough to scare the living crap out of you - but I digress.
You can only imagine the physical and mental state of a bull at the end of the rut. He's just spent 8 weeks rounding up his women, keeping them in line, warding off all rivals, getting some nooky as often as he can, as many times a day as possible with as many cows as possible. All the while keeping the herd on the move. By the end they are DONE, just DONE. Except that just like 18-year old boys in Fort Lauderdale in March, they don't know it's 3 a.m. and the bar is closed and it's time to go home. Those damn bulls keep going...one excruciating step at a time. So hoarse they can hardly make a sound, let alone bugle for babes. So exhausted that, even if they round up a willing partner, they're too exhausted to do anything about it. So done. Say it with me now - D.O.N.E.
This, dear internet, is how I feel today.
