Hitting the Wall

People talk about hitting the wall a lot.  I only really remember a similar experience once or twice before.

Once was at Glendale Galleria, when I was about...15ish....  I had nearly broken my left ankle the year before ('cause bad things happen when you stand on the joint and not your foot) and had been slowly rehabbing it on my own (no insurance, ya know).  I was walking around and all of a sudden...no more.  There was some pain, yes, but mostly this deep, instinctive knowledge that with every step I took, the joint was getting more wobbly and unstable and if I didn't get the heck out of Dodge RIGHT THIS SECOND, very bad things were going to happen.

Once was shopping at a Costco off the 101 freeway before my...junior year of college, I think.  I was shopping with two of my roommates for random stuff, when something about the Costco hit me like a ton of bricks.  I got pasty, clammy, and flushed.  (Imagine that combination.)  One of my roommates went and got me a drink.  I've since figured out that it's got to be some combination of the swamp coolers they use and the flicker from the lights.

Anyway, I took Patrick to Disneyland last night.  One minute, I was fine, though kinda sticky and gross because the weather was...well, sticky and gross....

The next?

"Why, hello, wall.  Allow me to smash face first into you."

Quite an experience, that.

But the best part?

I muttered something to myself about hitting the wall -- which, apparently, is a saying Patrick had never heard before.

"What wall?" he said.  "You didn't hit a wall."

"It's a saying.  It means I'm really tired."

"Oh," he said.  "You're pooped!"