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I have a job that requires me to wake up too goddamn early in the morning. I wake up between 5:00 A.M. and 5:30A.M. Watching the sky go from inky blue to full-on daylight while you shower, iron a shirt, get dressed, eat breakfast, and prepare a half-assed attempt of a lunch is exhausting. Having the sun ease its way into the sky somehow makes me more tired.
Every day, I stand in the shower, looking at my disappointing stomach, a physical reminder that I can’t get my life into any semblance of an order that would accommodate exercise, wanting to lay down anywhere. In my bed. On the couch. Hell, on the floor of the shower as the steamy droplets wrap me like a non-renewable blanket. But I can’t. I live on a point along the industrial revolution’s timeline that necessitates my showing up to a job on time in exchange for money needed to purchase food, shelter, and movie tickets.
Some days, I get back into bed after showering and lie down for 15 more minutes, but that’s fool’s gold. I can’t really enjoy it. I’m too worried about not being able to fall asleep or what I still need to do to get ready. Sure the bed is still cozy, but the moment is too fleeting.
But, last week, I decided to make that groggy, early morning dream a reality. On Saturday I set my alarm for the normal weekday time. Shuffled to the bathroom in the darkness, lathered up, dried off, and crawled back into bed.
And it was a let down. When I woke up, I was so excited to get back to bed that I wasn’t that tired when I was showering. And without the specter of going to work weighing me down, the call of the comforter was muffled. Getting back into the covers was nice, and my dog was relieved to have my feet to lay on again, but it wasn’t the same.
It turns out that you can’t replicate the drudgery of the weekday. That’s why I’m calling in sick on Monday.
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