I’VE noticed recently that the main topic of conversation among my friends is tiredness. Actually, there is an underlying contest over who is more tired and who has truly earned his or her tiredness. I am not speaking of the downtrodden poor, who don’t have the time to discuss the intricacies of fatigue. I am talking about upper-middle-class martyrs in their thirties and forties, for whom all tiredness is not equal. There are several categories among us. There are the tired married people with kids. There are the tired single people who work at home. There are the tired single people who are somewhat employed outside the home. And, of course, there are the tired people who have real jobs (a minority in this group).
According to the tired married people with kids, there is no contest. They are the royalty of the tired kingdom. They are smug with exhaustion. I belong to the tired-single-people-who-work-at-home group, and in the tired race I don’t have a prayer. I have more than enough friends in the married-with-kids group, and I’ve gone many rounds of tiredness discussions. Generally, I try to head them off at the pass with a gentle “You must be so exhausted,” hoping the acknowledgment will suffice. Unfortunately, this only sends them into their litany. When I talk to a member of this group, I try not to let it slip out that I may be a tiny bit tired, too. Sometimes it does slip out, and it can nip a tiredness conversation in the bud.
Conversations with my neighbor usually begin with a few basic pleasantries. He says, “Hi.” I reply, “Hi, how are you?” He answers, “Exhausted.” And we are off and running. I chime in, “I’m tired, too.” We proceed to try and outdo each other. My neighbor beats me every time, because he is a single busy tired person who works somewhat outside the home. Sure I’m tired, but I’m not particularly busy. By his estimation, he averages three or four hours of sleep a night. He also naps at random, which is the true mark of a tired person who works at home (or somewhat at home). Whether naps count as sleep is unclear. (The tired married people with kids do not nap, or, if they do, they don’t come clean.)
My neighbor and I are very specific in our chronicling of tiredness. We include time of actual tuck-in and amount of actual shut-eye, number of times awakened (including cause and effect), amount of human interaction in the day (a major factor in tiredness calculation), number of trips out of the house, and number of naps. Our conversation usually sends my neighbor back to bed.
By now it might be time to mention my brother, the jazz musician. He is bone tired. This is because he is a member of yet another group, the international-jet-set tired people. My brother is always on the road playing gigs—from Istanbul to Helsinki to Houston Street. When he is on tour in Italy, for example, not only must he deal with the adulation of fans but he must consume sumptuous free meals and stay in Tuscan castles. And he must always hang after a gig. “Hang” is jazz lingo for drinking all night with fans, who are often female. You can imagine the tiredness this can lead to.
Just last year, my big-wheel writer friend joined the ranks of the international-jet-set tired group. Now she, too, is always flying off to exotic locales—in her case, to work on a movie she has written. She, too, is forced to consume sumptuous free meals and stay in Tuscan castles. And, as if that weren’t tiring enough, she is also searching for a mate. Finding a mate requires an inordinate amount of human interaction, naturally leading to you know what. Every day, on the phone, my friend rattles off her packed schedule, including both lunch and dinner dates, with an occasional party thrown in. My schedule is not packed, and the conversation is rather one-sided. Yet after I hang up I am overcome with exhaustion. In fact, I don’t think I want to talk to any more members of the international-jet-set tired group. In fact, I might not want to talk to any members of any tired group. Instead, I will silently examine my own life, which will inevitably land me in the position I am most accustomed to: prone.
1995