(Some might also ascribe this as "motherhood", but I am still foolishly optimistic that it is merely poor coincidence and not a true state of being for the next fifteen years.)
(Also, I may be too tired right to objectively judge whether six years is still plausibly coincidental.)
I got to that point tonight, and it was, of all things, over picking out my work clothes for the next day.
I knew I was tired when I abandoned the battle to sort through the latest batch of six large trash bags if hand me down toys in an often futile feeling attempt to get my living room back into an almost clean state.
I knew I was frustrated when I stopped trying to get the still-not-working-right Internet back online for the fifth night in the past week.
I knew I had reached my limit of skill when I finally completed assembling a tiny chest of drawers for Kristina's room that took over two hours and made me swear I would never buy anything with particle board and drawers ever again.
So I went to bed.
Except that part of going to bed means laying out my clothes for tomorrow because I do not have the functionality of a slug when I first wake up and cannot handle things like "select a pair of pants" to save my life.
And all my two pairs of work pants were dirty.
Thus began the quest for tights, which quickly turned into destroying what slim semblance my closet had for organization as I cursed emphatically over my inability to locate a single fucking pair of tights in any of the fucking yet-to-be-unpacked boxes and bags floating around my bedroom.
Midway through I attempted to re-strategize and make do with a pair of pants that weren't my usual work pants instead, which is how my sweaty tired ass got stuck in a pair of corduroys I had no business trying to put on in the first place, which I knew but somehow did anyways on account of really clouded tired judgement. Do you remember that scene from Friends (many eons ago...) when Ross had leather pants he couldn't get back up after going to the bathroom in a date's apartment? I honestly not sure of that scenario is better or worse than the inability to get ones pants off in the first place, however I am quite certain that both of them just suck for the person with the sticky booty.
Finally I grew to accept the utter lack of tights and reasonable other pant alternatives and settled on a pair of possibly-yet-to-have-holes-in-them nylons instead, even though I will undoubtedly rip the knees out within twenty minutes of being at work. At work we sell tights. Oh, but don't buy the cheap target ones, I ripped holes in a pair of those just trying to put them on the last time I got them.
So then I pulled out the skirt I was going to wear from the depths of the piles of clothes strewn about just to make sure I was good to go in the morning only to discover that I have gotten a little bit curvier and now it doesn't sit low enough on my hips to keep me from looking like a cheap hooker (see also: the story of my in middle school, chapter 7: the blossoming of hips), and really, the last thing I need at work is get in trouble for something dumb like a dress code violation just because my pants were dirty.
Luckily I have another longer and more accommodating of hips skirt which I usually wear except that a couple weeks ago I ripped the split seam out of the back when I was riding bikes out to the storage bins behind Target where we keep all the extra back-to-college inventory and totally forgot to beg my mommy to fix it. But I have safety pins.... Yep, nothing like safety pinning your clothes together to make you feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, who, incidentally, was also a cheap hooker.
Somewhere, there is an alternative universe where I manage to just buy a new fucking skirt when I rip the old one and have piles and piles of tights in every color.
However, there's also probably a universe where I just get enough sleep and have enough time not spent hollering at children to stop doing whatever it is you are doing that is making your sister scream so that I'm not so tired I feel like I don't even know how to handle life most of the time.
It's good to have dreams.