Wednesday, October 28, 2015

In excess of three strikes.

This morning, I arrived at work one hour early for an appointment, spilled my warm beverage on my shirt, did an emergency washup in the restroom that resulted in cold wet shirt syndrome, then spilled my beverage again, this time on the floor, while fetching a fork from the utensil dispenser. Three strikes, I said, maybe even aloud, in the cafeteria, walking away from the spill as if it had nothing to do with me.

But let me start over.

Last night, I got into bed. I assumed my auto-sleep posture (state secret). I closed my eyes. I felt the imminence of sleep, for about twenty minutes, until the Awake Fairy tapped me right on the eyelids and said, fat chance.

I got up and added a bunch more lines to a poem I have started. Dubious lines, if you must know. I researched the source of the Los Angeles river (Bell Creek and Arroyo Calabasas). I wrote until I felt not just sleepy but exhausted. I was seventy-five, eighty percent exhausted. I came back to bed, assumed the posture (state secret), and fell asleep for real.

Five hours later, alarm. Not just the phone going off, my state of mind at what the day was likely to be. Spilled beverage, wet shirt, too early, and another spill. Not to mention hurty eyes and a tiny but naggy headache. I'm not complaining, this is just reportage. This is, like, the science of reportage. It's straight up data, man.

Years from now when they study the data set of today, they will find what any fool could have predicted: compromised productivity. Constant pulse-checking (pulse being a metaphor here--sorry about that, data!). Possible surges of self-pity. Clock-watching. Meeting meeting meeting, all of which were sleep-deprivation compromised.

In the end--by which I mean the end of the day--I came home, traffic seeming extra-sluggish, and fell, it's not too strong a word, into bed for an hour, which gave me exactly enough stamina to eat leftover pasta with pesto, and then laid around all evening, watching bits from Trevor Noah and Ghostbusters.

I'm assuming, in an excess of optimism, that this will be a one time event. That I will wake tomorrow in full possession of my faculties, including the ability to hold on to my beverage and read a schedule. And then I will find my will to live and--let's hope--my will to grade, because the Lord knows I need to. Here's to the Awake Fairy finding her appropriate place on another side of the planet, and the sleep posture (state secret) doing its appointed work.

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