Jo, rung out and drained.

I am exhausted. My face is taking on the color and shading of artificial office lighting, that sallow blandness of neutrals; those endearing smudges in the wall of business victories forged in a unpredictable economy; the blotchy nature of dreams grinded, like stains in the carpet. I awoke this morning and my body said, simply, “No!” It did not want to make that familiar 1.5 mile drive to the office, down that pot-hole ridden lane in the morning fog that Los Angeles manages to cough up come dawn and reclaim come dusk. My body, our bodies (Go Team!) are now struggling to fight muscle atrophy; my shoulders are leaning forward in an all too familiar gesture. My hands, they naturally reach out, seeking keyboard or hazelnut coffee, just to my left. My neck, it clenches a phone even after hours, when a phone no longer rests in the nook between ear and shoulder.

My energy, that wild beautiful tornado, is unraveling.

The days of the week tumble together like a child’s toy blocks. They collapse like dominoes and then it’s the weekend. I believe all of Los Angeles must be tired, even the sun is tired. She has been hiding for a few days now and when I look out at our floor-to-ceiling windows, it’s a vastness of gray.

Although I am tired, it is the weekend, almost, and that is something to celebrate. This weekend I will dust off that candy-apple beach cruiser of mine and head west until I see ocean waters. My friend and I, we will bike side-by-side and discuss our weeks and boys and jobs and food. We’ll pant and laugh and stop somewhere for lunch on the way back. We’ll dodge cars and old ladies walking, and the occasional bus. On Sunday I head north to the Gamble House in Pasadena to tour a home of brilliant craftsmanship. If you don’t know what the Gamble House is, Google will tell you.

And so it goes, life in Los Angeles.