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I’m Just A Little Tired . . .

I’m Just A Little Tired . . .

Wait, when did I get here? I stood in my kitchen with grocery bags in my hand. That seemed like it would be alright if only I remembered the drive home. I should have because it was important to remember that you operated a motor vehicle.

I set the bags on the kitchen island counter. What did I even go to the store for? I took a moment to think. Bread! I needed bread because I craved toast.

My sore hands went through the bags. No damn bread. I shook my head at all the other stuff that I bought. Most of it, I didn’t even need. There was a box of Toaster Strudel in a bag. I hadn’t had those in years, so I was confused why I wanted them now.

“I can’t believe I forgot my bread,” I mumbled to the air. I really wanted that toast. A part of me wanted to go back to the store, but I was too exhausted to leave my condo.

My brain fog seemed to get worse by the day. I’d resorted to making lists because lately, I forgot more than I remembered. The lists were an awesome idea until I forgot where I put that damn list that told me what I needed to remember. Where was the list that reminded me where I put the list?

Mazikeen, just put the groceries away, take a shower, eat, then go to bed. I had been going to bed earlier in the recent weeks. No matter how much I slept, it felt like I got no rest. It was exhausting being exhausted.

At first, I thought that I was just tired, so that was the reason I went to bed earlier. Now, I knew better. Tiredness went away with a good night’s rest; exhaustion didn’t. I went to sleep tired, woke up tired, worked tired. At this point, I did everything tired.

Work was a whole different beast when it came to my exhaustion.

There were days that I told myself in my office at Queen Luxury Property Management that I would just close my eyes for a few seconds.

Those seconds turned to thirty minutes. I woke up confused because I didn’t remember when I fell asleep.

I’d worked at Queen Luxury Property Management since I was twenty-two years old after I attained my bachelor of science in hospitality management and a minor in business administration from the University of South Carolina in Columbia, South Carolina.

My first position straight out of college was as a resident service coordinator.

I loved that position because it got my foot in the door.

After a few years of excellent work, I secured a position as the community manager where I turned around properties that struggled to retain residents.

I improved resident satisfaction and built stronger community engagement.

In some cases, I built it from ground zero.

There were vendors that didn’t want to bother with some properties for various reasons, but I came in and changed the thermostat of the relationship to strengthen it.

My success was noticed by corporate, who eventually promoted me to regional resident experience manager.

It was a position created just for me so that I could become a trainer.

In that position, I trained our property teams across North and South Carolina and Georgia on how to use the tools to be successful with their resident retention.

When a person chose to live in a luxury property, it wasn’t enough to do the bare minimum. Amenities were life.

Now at thirty-one as the director of resident experience and community relations, I oversaw community programming, resident retention efforts, customer service initiatives, resident engagement strategies, and vendor partnerships for the portfolio of properties owned by Queen Luxury Property Management in Charlotte, North Carolina.

I loved what I did. It sounded like a cushy position until you had to solve resident disputes before lunch, emergency plumbing issues before five, as well as explain to the corporate office why a resident should be allowed to have their emotional support pet sloth in their condo.

With how busy I had been at work, I blamed the way I felt on that.

My body hurt in ways that I couldn’t comprehend.

My fingers hurt like hell, but not like an arthritis pain.

It was like a swollen, stiff kind of pain.

Rings and buttons were the damn enemy. It was a game of Russian roulette when I chose my rings some mornings.

Oh, and if I wanted to button something, it was just a prayer and well wishes.

My finger pains should have been an alarm, but they weren’t.

The horns started to sound softly when by Friday, it felt like my shoe size increased because of the tightness of them.

The horns got a little louder by Sunday when my face looked fatter.

Salt, I’m eating too much salt! I convinced myself that was the problem.

Once I settled in that, then the horns softened in my mind.

Every issue I explained away, except those damn stairs.

One day, all stairs and I were at odds. There wasn’t a previous notice of contention or anything.

We just started to beef, and the aroma was strong.

My office was on the property that I lived in.

It was one flight above the community game room, and it felt like it was the stairway to Mount Olympus.

We had a routine. I stood at the bottom of the devils every morning with a look of disdain while it looked back at me like and, bitch.

I took my time as I walked up the flight of stairs and cursed them the whole way.

Once I made it to the top of the landing, my phone was ready for my ‘I just got a text that I need to answer’ scene.

I needed that minute to catch my damn breath, and my knees needed the minute to stop screaming.

No one ever noticed, or at least they pretended not to as they walked by with their smiles and hellos.

It was a constant mixture of pain, exhaustion, headaches, nausea, and random fevers.

They never stayed very long, so I never felt the need to go to urgent care.

I mastered the best answer for every question that anyone asked.

It was the simplest and shortest sentence.

Right now, as I stood at my counter in my kitchen, I told myself the same thing that I told so many before. “I’m fine.”

A Few Days Later . . .

“The queen is here!” My best friend, Lula Ann’s, voice bounced off the walls early on this Saturday morning. She walked into my condo uninvited with all the confidence that God gave her and a little more of the devil on her other shoulder.

I lay on my couch after a restless, painful night. Once again, I was exhausted. My eyes stayed on her as she walked to my dining room table with a bag in one hand and a drink holder in the other. With an angled head, I asked, “Since when have you had a key to my place?”

Her hair flung over her shoulder when she turned her head to look at me. The bridge of her nose was scrunched, and her left brow was high. Her hand went to her thick hip.

“So, you got your first apartment when you were twenty-three. Yep, because Obama was the president.” Her arms crossed over her chest. “I’ve had a key to your apartments, not just this one, but any one of them that you had, since Obama was president. Come get this coffee.”

She turned her back on me. When she noticed that I hadn’t gotten up, she turned around with the coffee cups in her hand, then walked over to where I sat on the couch. Her feet stopped mid-walk when her eyes fell on me. She really looked at me this time. “Maz, when’s the last time you slept?”

I didn’t respond until she placed the cups on the coffee table in front of me and sat down. “Um, I slept last night like I do every night. What kind of question is that?”

She tittered. “Well, shit, maybe this is a better question. Did you wrestle a bear last night? It looks like that muthafucka won, sis.”

My head bucked back. “Damn, just tell me that I look like shit, Lula Ann! You are so dramatic.” I reached out to grab my cup of coffee, but my hand was smacked. “Owe! What the hell?”

Her hand smack hurt more than it should have. It was another morning of swollen hands. My eyes slit as I glanced at her.

“When’s the last time that you’ve been to the doctor?” she asked. Her body turned into me. When she tucked her leg under herself, I knew this conversation would be longer and more serious than I wanted it to be.

I slowly reached for my coffee again. This time, I was successful. After my first sip, my shoulders shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s been a while.”

Her head tilted as she stared at me. It was her hard, computing stare. “You’ve lost weight in your face, Maz.”

“Thanks, I guess. That’s the least my body can do when I’ve gained weight everywhere else.” My body currently was in a do whatever the hell it wanted to phase.

She glanced down. “I’ve noticed. You’re ankles and ham hocks are twins.”

My mouth fell open. “Lula Ann! Bitch, I’ll take your wig off and pour this coffee on it.”

I laughed although I didn’t want to. My laughter faltered when I noticed her laughter wasn’t there. The concern in her eyes was strong.

She grabbed my hand closest to her and rubbed it. “Does your hand hurt? How long has it been swollen like this?”

“It started a while ago.” I shrugged. “It hurts sometimes.”

She nodded as she still rubbed my hand. There was no way that I would tell her to stop, because it felt too good. Without her eyes on me, she asked, “How long have you been wrestling bears—I mean not sleeping?”

My brows knit in the middle. “First, fuck you.” I chuckled with my words. “As far as the sleeping, I sleep every night.”

“Okay, here’s a better question. How long have you been exhausted?” She knew me better than I knew myself. This was the first time that she brought up my exhaustion.

The only sound in the room was the television that watched us. I hadn’t answered her question because I wasn’t sure of the answer. Had it been days, weeks, or months? “I don’t know. I’m fine, though.”