I've never thought I "needed a rest" when performing everyday activities. I am, by nature, a push-until-I-can't kind of person (which is probably part of how I ended up like this in the first place). Needing a rest, to me, sounds like 'inability to continue'. And pretty much nothing has made me feel like that, from the very first. (OK, climbing back up the cliffs at Port Mulgrave had me whimpering, and if begging would have reduced the effort required, I would have begged for it to stop, but that is a long time ago now.) But following Friday's mopping incident, I've been rethinking that assumption.
Today, I was changing the bedlinen. Super-king-size duvets are not heavy, per se, but they are bulky and large and just plain uncooperative. Suddenly, I realised that I was wobbling on my feet, that my heart was pounding, and I was heading into a state of mind that I recognise well: impatient, antsy, frantic to finish. It is a precursor to clumsiness; a state of mind in which I will get angrily tearful that inanimate objects will not do what I want, dammit. (Perfectly rational, then).
So I laid down on the (partially made) bed, and let my body come back to itself. Let my heart slow, felt the shaking in my limbs abate. Waited until the emptiness left by the shaking filled up with something more substantial. Then, I finished making the bed.
Yes, I needed a rest.