The first alarm goes off somewhere between 4:50am and 5:00am. I don't really know since I am that girl that sets her clock ahead but never really knows how far ahead it is so that there is a slight glimmer of hope I might actually drag my carcass out of bed in time. The snooze button takes a daily, repetitive beating. At 5:05am exactly, the satelite regulated cell phone starts blaring some pre-installed techno ring. Upbeat and annoying as hell. Most days it is enough to jar me out of my exhaustion enduced coma but just in case, the third alarm goes off at 5:10am sharp.
I know this is my last chance to get out of bed before I have to rush more than I do every other day. Most days I dutifully slip out of my warm bed and into the cold darkness of the morning. Other days, I convince myself that I can make up 5 minutes. Just 5 more minutes of quiet and dreams. Somewhere in my life I have developed a habit of tracing a circle under the covers with my foot, convinced the movement will keep me awake long enough to enjoy the extra time I have allotted myself. Needless to say, these mornings I wake with a jerk, no less than 15 minutes later, that shakes my body from the top of my head to the tip of my toes and the bad attitude that comes with hurrying through the routine.
Trudging through the black, I run my hand along the footboard and calculate the well known path in my head. I try to swing the bathroom door shut before I reach for the lightswitch, keeping as much light out of the black cocoon the Lietuenant is occupying. One step after the other, all completed in the same order as the day before. One mis-step results in a forgotten procedure, sending me deeper into a dizzying confusion.
A quick peck on the lips so he doesn't wake and I am out the door. The dogs barely move as I make my way to the kitchen. I gather my bags and slip on some shoes. Depending on the season, layers are added or even taken away. I trudge across the porch and into the garage, slowly backing out of the same driveway and head down the same street. It is like clockwork, generally at least 10 minutes behind despite my best efforts. I punch the buttons on the radio, praying for something upbeat enough to keep my eyelids propped open.
So dependable. So predictable. So mundane.
My favorite part of the morning comes when I join the pool and catch a few moments of respite from the world. My eyes close and I sink back into darkness. My body knows the number of turns and stops and somehow manages to rouse out of my state as the final turn approaches. The pressure settles into my shoulders. Bracing for another day of the insanity and discontentment.
Trudging through the morning, I wait for a phone call. A 15 minute conversation filled with mundane details, unable to drum up a livelier conversation. Back to meetings and requests and emails I count down the hours until lunch. A 30 minute window of unfiltered, unrestrained Bernice*. I unload all I can as fast as I can and laugh as much as possible. The clock scolds me and I trudge back to the confines of a cubicle. A monitor and keyboard, perhaps some music to dull the pain and distract the mind. A final countdown to another phone call and the marking of the end of the day. More silence from the receiver and stressed conversation, frantically trying to find a topic.
A walk to the car, the realization of a long drive home, the hope of a nap and the lingering of the to-do list. None of which involves dinner for two, a kiss at the door or tv on the couch. Another day survived, another dollar earned. It is feast or famine - silence or scrambling.
The evening is blurred by tears or time. The routine settles in, preparing to start over again. The final phone call of the day ended with a goodnight and a cold empty bed. The haunting glow from the phone that holds my ties together illuminates the ceiling that I stare at, praying for sleep to come. Thoughts dance in my head, colliding with fears and worries causing a reaction that would keep Rip Van Winkle awake. I beg for sleep, I long for sleep. Just a few hours of uninterrupted, blissful, restorative sleep. And yet I stare. And toss. And turn. Bracing to start again. A cycle I can't break.
4 comments:
Ah yes, another day in the slumpedness of life. I have my fair share as well, although I tend to be fairly optimistic. The book of Ecclesiastes in the Good Book describes your very situation - life tends to be a bunch of nothingness. True joy comes in finding the purpose and plan for your life, and getting to it. I yield to the Higher Ups, which seems to work out pretty well.
The purpose and plan is all well and good... but what the heck is it?
And what is the difference between yielding and and sitting and waiting?
Yielding, as best I can think, is purposeful, intentional devotion. Maybe yielding wasn't the right word, but what I meant to say wasn't intended to be a passive endeavor.
Purpose is derived from the talents, gifts and passions that you were blessed with. There are likely any number of paths to employ them, however, if you subscribe to the aforementioned Higher Ups, then what you do will ultimately not be for yourself, but for those Higher Ups.
With conversation like this, you keep me committed to my blog - sounds like a posting in the making!
Ninty percent of life is boring routine. It's the ten percent that makes it worth living. So make sure you squeeze every bit of joy out of that ten percent, and every drop of juice from the lime that you will be squeezing into your little umbrella drink in a few days.
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