Lessons from JordanCon

[Note: I swear I’m reaching the end of Con stuff... at least for this year... heh.]

Last year I returned from JordanCon to epic burnout.

Like, couldn’t get off the recliner, was sick for weeks with a mystery illness that eventually (thanks to blood work and other tests) solidified into viral laryngitis...

Picture me swinging a makeshift light saber (read: half a pool noodle with a duct tape grip) in frustration while my kidlets dance about me, because they think it’s great awesome the best post-con present EVAR that Mom can’t speak...

For. Days.

Yep. After rounds of non-working antibiotics and then semi-working steroid, it turned out all I needed was to wait out said virus by dozing my days away (in the living room recliner, so I could keep a close eye on my children, natch), (relative) quiet, and R.E.S.T.

What did I learn?

Well... that I should probably avoid the communal Kraken flask, for one...

(Just kidding, Richard.)

But really? The doctor who treated me claimed I hadn’t contracted this mystery virus at the Con... surprising, yes?

No, what had happened was I burnt myself out at the Con, and my poor ragged body was so run down that my immune system had no fuel left to fight off an everyday virus.

I guess a sum total of 14 hours sleep over four nights’ll do that do you.

Especially if you add copious amounts of alcohol. Heh.

(If I recall correctly, I was so close to passing out that I was literally swaying on my feet while volunteering at JordanCon 2012. April, my Mistress of the Art Show, had to send me to bed... at 2pm. Exhaustion had given way to nausea, I was that tired... and said nausea kept me from falling asleep. I called Mr Lannis in tears, in part because I felt so ugly I needed to hear him, and in part because he’s my grounder and if he tells me to go to sleep, I will. Um, except this time—apparently.)

Hey—when I call it a five day sleepless bender I’m not using hyperbole.

Jump forward... back home a month later and I was maybe back to normal.

This year, well, this year is much better. (In the interests of full disclosure, I’m still weary in the aftermath, but it’s not something I haven’t dealt with in cycles for months now, and this past month has been very incredibly psychotically hectic for us. The point is that I’m far better than I was this time last year.)

Why? Because I learned something last year... and now I’m going to share it with you... (you’re thrilled, I can tell...)

Food. Water. Sleep... They're the big three.

You can only sacrifice one.

As history has proven I’m unlikely to get much sleep at JordanCon, I decided that this year I would focus on eating well and keeping hydrated.

I avoided fried foods, I ate my veggies. I ate regularly, and sensibly.

I carried around a refillable mug for water, and filled it often.

During daylight hours I drank water constantly. At dinner, well, that’s when the alcohol began...

But as I’d front-loaded my day with proper hydration, I hardly suffered from indulging come evening night time to put on the drunky pants.

And I’m no expert, but I’m going to guess that eating well and being hydrated had something to do with my lack of indigestion and the complete turnaround in my ability to sleep...

So I’m passing this lesson along: Food. Water. Sleep. Choose one.

Of course, this raises another question... what did I learn this year?

Well, this year I learned not to mock my travel-savvy roommate for carting along five pairs of shoes for five days from home. Runners, flip flops, flats, blue suede jazzy things... I was ::thisclose:: to taking a pic of her shoes in order to tease her...

Whereas I packed my gold ballet flats for costume purposes, and wore a pair of cute wedges the rest of the time.

Wedges which are normally comfortable, but (if you can gather where this is going) are now waiting in the garage for a decent opportunity to sacrifice them to some unknown god who enjoys the ritual burning of footwear...

Yeah. My feet will never forgive me if I ever attempt to slip those bad boys back on... over a week later and they’re still worn raw in spots.

And to be incredibly frank, let’s just say I’m sure my airplane seatmate would thank me (if he’d known) for having crumbled and splurged the $10 USD on a pair of socks to wear on the plane ride home because the funk coming from those heels were making ME suicidal...

You’re welcome, unknown semi-professional dirt-biking kid from Brampton who trains in Tulsa during Canadian winters (I never did catch your name).

And you’re welcome, too, dear readers, that I am passing on this valuable lesson. (And be thankful, too, that the Internet has no smell-o-vision. Heh.)

Now go... learn from me... don’t create reasons to burn perfectly good footwear. It’s sad...