It’s a particularly comforting fantasy, since I am pretty much immune to becoming well-rested. No matter how long I sleep, still tired. I have been to the doctor, had the blood work. I drink the water, do the exercise, all those things. Still tired.
I do stuff anyway. Of course. Life doesn’t happen to care whether or not I am in peak condition. It ignores the bags under my eyes and the sluggishness of my step, my distinct lack of bushy-tailed brightness.
At least I’m not a squirrel.