That overwhelmingly tired feeling.  The one that comes with coaching your son’s Little League baseball team to its sixth consecutive loss.  So tired that you walk in the door and throw your jersey in the laundry basket.

Sad, when you realize that the trash still needs to go out to the curb, but you are now shirtless.  So tired, that you are somewhat okay walking outside shirtless to take the trash to the curb.  Okay, because you are a man.  A sad and tired man, but still an American male and therefore permitted to wander around within certain perimeters shirtless.

Sad, when you realize at the curb that every woman in the neighborhood is tending to something in their front yards.  Extra self consciously saddened to accept that you are vulnerably shirtless, in the view of so many, and have more of a body like the Grinch than Brad Pitt.

Super sad in a special idiot sort of way, when you realize that you took the trash out to the curb a day ahead of time.  Sad, shirtless, but in an odd way, ahead of my time.