Wednesday, 28 November 2012

wee hours

I'm currently trying to get used to a normal rhythm for normal people. Going on two months now and I still have problems. It's the having to wake up at 6.30 a.m. that bothers me the most. I love the night time. My mind is like a hyperactive 3-year-old on a sugar rush when most people are sleeping. But when you know you have to be chirpy when the sun rises (I envy you guys who might have to go to work early but who can go with a sulk or nurse a hangover for the most of the day, you lucky whatchamacallits), three hours of sleep is not enough. So I groan and moan and sometimes even cry (theatrically) five times every week when the alarm sounds. After ten or twenty minutes of messy thoughts, half sleeping, hoping to die, I get up and try to find something positive about why I had to maneuver myself out of bed. This is especially hard when you have a boyfriend who gets to stay in bed and has just held you tightly and told you not to go. Yes. I know. I can't believe my luck. How is it possible to meet a person like this? All through the relationship I've written down all the sweet things he's said and done, in fear of forgetting them later. By now it's already a big book. Pardon for the schmaltz, but come on! (We do fight, well no, spat, sometimes. Rarely.)

If I wake up at my place, which happens rarely nowadays, I might be able to have breakfast and take a minute to decide what to wear, instead of choosing the first clean things I find, but mostly I get ready in 15 minutes and rush to the bus. Then I proceed to take two or three different modes of transportation to reach my work. I tend to annoy other passengers in all these crowded vehicles by eating breakfast while I travel (saves time, what's the problem). In this city you don't carry coffee with you. But because I'm a little rebel and my fuel is coffee, I revel in the glow of disapproving looks. I always smile back at them, which is a stretch since it's SO EARLY.


photo from here

When I get to where I'm going I start. At the door I have a final passing thought about calling in sick or just simply running away, but I never do. I greet the nuns with their soul-scanning glance as politely as I can, but also a little defensively (what did I tell you about being a rebel). After all because of them I can't wear mini skirts at work. Hateful. My mood improves a little bit when upstairs I'm welcomed with a wave of hellos and good mornings and hugs and kisses. Joy. Even if five minutes later someone might bite you in the knee because you told them not to try to bite you in the knee.

And now I wonder what is the point of this post? Ummm. Maybe just to voice my desperation about the early hours of the day. The city is filled with tired faces all going somewhere, all unhappy to be out of their beds, but understanding too that this is what we have to do to survive.

But I have plans. I'm working on them. They don't involve getting up before nine.

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