As I mentioned in last week’s blog, Hubby and I recently returned from a fabulous Mediterranean cruise—the kind with endless food, sunshine, and gelato that convinced me that calories don’t count in a different time zone. The trip was wonderful. (Don’t hate me.) But we came home with an uninvited souvenir that didn’t fit neatly into our luggage. Jet lag.

If you’ve never experienced jet lag, imagine your body staging a full-blown protest because you dared to tamper with the natural order of time. It’s your body’s way of reminding you that it doesn’t take kindly to being catapulted through time zones. You can spend eleven hours hurtling through the sky, eating chicken or pasta (at least that’s what the flight attendants claim you’re eating), binge-watching movies with uncomfortable headsets against the background of jet noise, and convincing yourself that sleep on a plane is, indeed, possible. But the moment you land, your internal clock starts acting like it just came off a three-day bender.

Your stomach wants breakfast when the locals are ordering dinner. Your eyelids stage a coup during the afternoon museum tour. And your brain, bless its confused little neurons, wakes you up at 2 a.m. feeling chipper and ready to tackle the world—until you remember it’s still dark and you’re not that ambitious. I think, “This must be what ‘morning people’ feel like,’ until the regret sets in at dawn.
By midafternoon, my body decides it’s time for bed. I sit down to answer emails, only to wake up an hour later with my forehead on the keyboard and a screen full of gibberish. Yes, I know you’re supposed to power through and stay awake until bedtime in your new time zone. Just try telling that to my body, which becomes comatose for four hours on the couch. Hubby had to wake me for dinner. Then I sat down to watch an hour of TV. I fell asleep during the opening credits. But, on the bright side, I was wide awake at 3 a.m.

At some point, I stop fighting it. I wander around the house in the pre-dawn hours, wondering why the dogs are looking at me like I’d lost my mind. Meanwhile, my stomach hasn’t gotten the memo either. At 10 a.m., it thinks it’s dinnertime. At midnight, it demands breakfast. I’ve eaten more out-of-sync meals this week than there are time zones between here and Italy.
Believe me, I’ve researched all the advice for preventing jet lag.

1. Drink plenty of water. Great, except my bladder didn’t cross time zones as gracefully as the rest of me.
2. Avoid caffeine and alcohol. Sorry, if there was ever a time for caffeine, it’s now.
3. Get sunlight first thing in the morning. Great. Except sunlight is not in abundance at 2 a.m.

It’s been 5 days now, and I’m wondering if I’ll ever sleep normally again. But from past experience, I know this jet lag, too, shall pass. I will finally stop feeling like my brain and body are on separate layovers. Eventually, I will wake up at a normal hour, feel vaguely human, and start Googling my next destination.

Because while jet lag may be an unwelcome souvenir, it’s still a small price to pay for the joy of seeing the world—and let’s face it, it beats bringing home another snow globe, though both leave you a little shaken.