Playground Adrenaline

You know the expression “drag yourself out of bed”? Well, today, I actually did: I reached down, grabbed my left thigh between my hands, and bodily chucked it off the bed. Try that sometime to see what happens: your legs go slithering under the covers and crash to the floor, pitching your upper body into the air. Your eyes flip open only when your knees slam painfully onto the half-unpacked suitcase you’d left next to the bed. And your wife, likely as not, comes running in from the bathroom to see what toppled. (It wasn’t a bookshelf, just an exhausted Doodaddy.)

Dragging myself out of bed was the only way I could wake up this morning: I’m just exhausted. Getting over a cold? Check. Flew back from Minnesota yesterday? Check. For some strange neurotic reason, still needed to finish the Times crossword before I could sleep, which kept me up until 1 a.m.? Check.

So obviously, the morning routine was painful. All the things that usually aren’t that big a deal — Boobaby not eating her breakfast, obsessing over the toothbrush, putting her shoes on the wrong feet — felt like bamboo shards prying up my fingernails. My eyes rolled back. My head was heavy. I could barely walk. I considered just staying home, and were it not for my fear that remaining would have been harder even than going out, I might have done just that.

And then we go out and I slide, swing, dig for bugs, play tag, balance on a beam, somersault, and toss a ball without feeling tired at all. At the playground, surrounded by Boo and her toddler peeps, I’m energized, connected, having a ball, and that state of manic fun pleasure extends right up until the moment we get home and Boo goes down for her nap. Then, I crash. Hard.

I guess this is what you runners mean by the “endorphin rush”? Kinda fun, isn’t it?

Pardon me, now: gotta go unconscious.