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.

full of grace

Guess what? I work with nuns. Nuns! I would never have believed to be in this situation. I am, after all, a non-religious person. Spiritual yes, but religious...I frown at the thought. So of course it's me who is put on this job, to work with brides of Christ. They are lovely people in general, but I can only imagine what they think of me. Unholy. Pagan. Child of Satan. Stupid. And with blond hair above all! Little bitc...eh, who knows.

On my first day I met the head nun, and immediately wanted to wail out 'I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorry!'. It felt like she could see inside my head, what I thought and what I felt. For sure she saw that I had left the church 10 years ago and still hadn't told my mom about it, that my favourite saying is 'oh-my-fucking-god', that on this particular day (which I'm afraid was like most of the other days) I had come to work in yesterday's clothes, with messy hair and so-so make up, straight from my boyfriend's place where we had done unholy things all night long. But I gulped, made my best effort to give a self assured smile and said 'good morning'. I wondered if she went back to the chambers and gossipped about me with the other nuns. Maybe they do that, how do we know.

After starting to work there I keep running into nuns everywhere. Once I saw two of a different sisterhood sitting opposite each other in a bus, both idly looking outside the window. I was surprised they didn't talk to each other. I wanted to say to them 'come ooon, you both work for the same boss, you should have loads to talk about!' In their shoes I would be all:

'Oh hiiii! Fancy being in the same bus!! Which congregation?'
'Noooo way, yeah, what a coincidence! I 'm [insert suitable name of a congregation here please].'
'Oh right, I was looking at your habit, you guys have such lovely clothes and I loooove the colour! So you must work with Father O'Brian!'
'Yeah, you know him?'
'For sure, I just saw him the other day. We made plans...'

At this point the conversation was in danger of getting too dirty, so I stopped. And yes, in my head they spoke like teenagers.

No surprise, I crossed off being a nun from my list of future jobs a looong time ago.