Suddenly it’s Tuesday. Monday seemed like it lasted for about five minutes and the commute from home to office to work now feels like a blur. What is it about time and how it callously functions on it’s own schedule without any regard to people’s lives. I need weekends to be longer, my limited free time after work before I fall asleep (only to wake up at 3AM unable to fall back to sleep) to feel like days not mere hours.
I woke up a 6:59 this morning. You know how you do that, wake up on your own seconds before your alarm is slated to go off? It’s sort of disgusting, really. Am I so trained now that I no longer need that irritating, bone-shaking beep beep beeping of the alarm in the morning to get me going? Is my life on such a regimented track that it’s come to this – my own biological clock subconsciously getting me up and getting me to work without my brain even realizing it?
Suddenly it’s Tuesday and I desperately need it to be Friday and I can already tell that time is going to be a real jerk today and take its sweet little time. 10AM will feel like 1PM, 2 will feel like 5, 6 will feel like…midnight.
So trained am I that I was on the subway and almost to my stop when looking back I didn’t entirely remember walking out of my apartment. Or getting on the bus, or getting off the bus on 72nd and Amsterdam and getting on the 1, or putting clothes on for that matter. It’s like those scary moments when you’re driving, cruising at 65 (or really 75, but that’s neither here nor there), and you’ve moved from exit 3 to about exit 15 and you don’t remember passing by 4 through 14? You remember that at one point you were singing aloud to Air Supply, thinking that you really are all out of love, until scarily you pass exit 15 with an open-mouthed look of “wha??” and swear never repeat the incident to anyone, ever again (including the singing).
The only thing that snapped me out of it, causing me to look up from my book, was when the doors opened at 34th street and there was a man playing the saxophone on the platform in front of the cracked Penn. Station sign. The sound of Dave Brubeck’s Take Five, not quite at the right 5/4 time signature speed, (this guy was no Paul Desmond), but I realized I was almost at work, and yes, thankfully, had clothes on.
Tuesday had officially begun, and Wednesday, slow to be sure, is only about 312 hours away.
1 comment:
I occasionally ask myself that question..."how did i get here? and how did i get here without even knowing it?" its one of the creepiest feelings...like a dejavu, "omg my body just isnt comfortable" kind of feeling....The blog, brillant.
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