April 08: Cloudy periods. Heading SSE.

What day is it? I don’t think I had anything to do today. But you never know. I find myself conveniently forgetting things I don’t really want to do sometimes, don’t you?

Me: “Oh, gosh, was that today? Oh, no, I totally have double-booked myself! I’ve been waiting months to get in to see this specialist, I have no idea how long I’ll have to wait or how I will feel afterwards, I am so sorry to miss it.”

Her: “No worries, it’s tomorrow.”

Me: “OH! That’s just wonderful news. What time is it again?” Trying to think of another excuse under pressure isn’t easy. You’ve already played the doctor card, which is a pretty serious card. They know your family so you can’t invent a birthday / hospital visit / picking up a nephew from the airport. Maybe you can leave your parking lights on overnight?

Me: “I hate to tell you but I’ve got to wait for BCAA / AAA / *AA, my car won’t start!”

Her: “No worries, we’ll come give you a boost.”

Me: “OH! That’s just wonderful news. I’ll let them know I’m okay, then. What time can you be here?” What else, what else? You can’t faint or have some kind of attack, they might take you to emergency, that would take hours, and although you’d miss the event, you’d also miss doing what you planned to do when you planned to miss the event. Oh, I know! A sick cat!

Me: “I’m so glad you fixed my car for me, I appreciate it so much, I can’t tell you. I have a problem though, Zanzibar my cat is sick, I really have to get him to the vet. Maybe I can come over the next time you have a wedding shower / baby shower / home birth.”

Her: “No worries, Frank here, the guy with the truck? He’s a vet.”

Me: “Oh, awesome.” Now what. Pretend the cat got out? They’ll sympathetically take you to the local print shop where you can run off lost posters for the cat you don’t own and helpfully then help you post them up around the neighbourhood.

Me: “Thanks so much. I should wait by the phone now. I’m sorry I totally forgot your gift.”

Her: “No worries, I’ll pick it up tomorrow.”

Now that you have a working car, you can nip out to buy a gift, get it wrapped, and pick up a cat.

I wish I was more like a cat, actually. I would then be permitted to sit, gloomy and malevolent, on the bed, watching tv. Just put the remote near my paw. No Cat Whisperer programs, please. We’re untrainable because we are the gods. When I deign to give you the honor of giving me attention, you will gratefully scratch my ears. I would never have to work a day in my life. I’d be strictly ornamental. Don’t forget to feed me. And don’t ever, ever, put me in that contraption that takes me to another, sterile and unfriendly place that smells of dogs. Where they put me on a cold table, manhandle me, give me needles, and stick stuff up my bum. You know of what I speak. That is strictly forbidden. Should you attempt to take me there I will be mad at you for a month and bite your nose when you sleep. I’ll urinate on the stove. So there.

Are we going backwards? (What? I should know? Why should I know. If there’s a way to steer this sinking ship, please enlighten me. No? Well, then, just hang on to your life preserver, then.)

~~

April 07: Light breeze. Heading south.

Good morning. (I don’t know if it is actually ‘good’ or not, but it’s polite to say so. Why? Well, I don’t know whether it’s good or not because I am still in bed. Safe. Warm. A little hungry, for sure, but reluctant to get up and walk on cold floors to see if I can find a clean cup for tea and a scrap of bread to break my fast. Insert hashtag woeisme eh. Well, you asked. If you don’t want an answer, don’t ask the question. Yes, I am. Grumpy. Just woke up.)

There’s nothing inherently wrong with mornings, per se. No really, there isn’t. The problem with mornings is.. First, they come too soon. In truth, part of the morning is seen the night before, when the creative juices are flowing and there are a myriad of movies on television, all of which you’ve seen before but one will likely be worth watching for the fifteen time. Having eaten all the edible popcorn and finished a coke or two, you stretch and yawn. But you’re restless and end up flipping channels until you finally realize it’s quarter to two and you’re supposed to get up in the morning. Early. That’s when the insomnia really sets in. Fast forward to five a.m. when the early news comes on and you finally close your bleary eyes.

The alarm shrills seconds later. Well, it feels like seconds, although it might have been two and a quarter hours. That’s if you remembered to set it at all in your latenight capriciousness. No sleep, dragging your bones, drinking your coffee and having your shower, every cell screaming to return to the haven of blankets and pillows. All because you had to get up early. Oughta be a law.

They say smart creative people are nightowls. But they need to put somewhere, even if it’s in the small print, that this means smart creative people need to sleep in. And should definitely not be asked to operate heavy machinery in the early hours of the day. Perhaps after a late lunch.

Second problem with mornings is that some people seem to expect that you will actually make an effort in the morning. I mean, the world is rampant with a plethora of circumstances that imply and insist and expect with no latitude for refusal, that you will actually do. Do. DO. Get washed and dressed. Answer the phone. Answer your email. Drink coffee. Watch the news. Find your car keys. Leave the relative security of your abode to brave the outside world with all its diversions and wonkiness. You’re at the bus stop at 07:15, the bus is due at 07:24. Well. 07:30 comes and goes. Other buses come by, but not the one you need. Finally, the 07:54 shows up at 07:45 and sits for ten minutes while you restlessly sit looking out the window willing him to move because it takes thirty minutes to get downtown. You know what that means.

The look.

You arrive, penitent and out of breath, saying ‘sorry’ to everyone you pass, hanging up your coat, trying to get to your desk before your absence is remarked, maybe swinging by the coffee room to grab a cup and pretend that’s where you’ve been. So you pat down your hair and calmly walk towards your desk. And there it is. It stops you in your tracks. You swallow. You open your mouth to say something but all that comes out is “eekerumm”.

All she’s done is turn her office chair part way, her head swivelling on her long thin neck, her pearl beads dangling. Her eyes fix on you. Nothing is said. You begin to sweat. Your sweater feels too heavy now. The coffee cup in your hand begins to list, dangerously close to dribbling. You swallow again. Clear your throat. “Ackkeke. I - I - I - I w-w-w-ill w-w-worrrk through m-m-m-m-my lunch.” The tone of your voice is thin and desperate.

She begins to turn away. A slight nod.

You can breath again. You upright your cup and get to your desk, cursing mornings and bus schedules and supervisors.

Your day is brightened when your cellmate - correction, workmate - mentions it’s Andrea’s birthday. Andrea… Andrea? That blonde hashtag ohnotHER from accounting? Still, there will be cake. And cake is wonderful thing. Cake can make a day feel bright. Especially if there are some who can’t or won’t eat it. You begin to plan.

Be there when the cake is cut and start passing it out to people, but stash a piece. Then, in front of everyone, take a piece and chat, eating slowly, waiting for people to start wandering back to their desks. Quickly take another piece and take it back to your desk. Later, on the way back from the washroom, pick up the stashed piece. That’s three. Want to try for four? Hmm.

Later, on a sugar high, you might demonstrate ‘the look’ to your workmates. Just don’t get caught. Good thing they don’t serve wine on birthdays. It’s embarrassing enough at the Christmas party.

Christmas? Don’t get me started. Besides, it’s only April. We should be talking about spring things. (What? I know I brought it up, but I’m deciding to discard that topic until a more suitable time.)

Spring cleaning? Don’t get me started.

~~