The last novel I teach my seniors is Ken Kesey’s One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. It’s a great end of the year read; they’re mature enough to handle the content, and even my most reading-reluctant students tend to love the story.
Right now? Pete Bancini, he speaks my language.
For those of you unfamiliar with the story, it takes place in a mental ward in 1962. Pete Bancini repeatedly utters “I’m tired”; his only other dialogue in the novel is when he has an episode where he starts ranting about how he was born dead, how he’s been dead his entire life. He’s fairly impervious to his surroundings for most of the story, instead just whining pathetically to anyone in the vicinity how tired he is of life.
Lately, I’m tired.
I’ve cut back on running (my monthly mileage is not where it should be), but I’m still having trouble even with 5-6 mile long runs. I’m still running regularly, 5-6 days a week, but it’s out of sheer habit and determination rather than enthusiasm.
I’m tired of work, nothing new for May when we’re all fairly exhausted and ready for a recuperative summer.
They say you don’t have to attend every argument you’re invited to. If only emails and texts arrived like Evites, a “we hope you can attend month 53 of uncooperative and hostile interaction!” so that I could just click “regretfully decline” and move on with my day, my month, my life.
But we all know that parenting, divorce, life doesn’t work like that.
I’m tired. It’s all a lot of baloney.