Sunday night: we had an evening work meeting despite the snowstorm. It was boring and relatively pointless, as we had all expected. But while we were sitting inside being bored it was snowing outside. So on the way home it was absolutely necessary to have a snowball fight with Wendy until my fingers threatened to go the way of the Woolly Mammoth. Eye-rubbing began at 5 am. Result: 6 hours sleep.
Monday night: is always trivia night. The catch is that they have added a round of trivia questions and begun the contest later in the evening. So despite the fact that I did not stick around to see whether my team successfully contended that we did name the Rushmore Presidents in the correct order if viewed from the ranger station at the bottom of the hill, my wake up call at 5 meant that I again recorded 6 hours of sleep.
Tuesday night: Was the Missy Higgins concert at the Ram's Head. You didn't know that I was a fan of hers. Neither did I. She was recommended to me by a regular, and so based on a 30-second iTunes clip, I decided that I really wanted to see her show. Unfortunately, as she is talented and becoming ever more popular, she is touring with two other acts and did not even appear under the lights until 9:45 to start her set. As I thoroughly enjoyed myself I did not leave early as I had shruggingly supposed I would and made it home around midnight. Cell phone buzzed again at 5- I clocked between 4.5-5 hours for the night.
Wednesday night: I went back to The Ram's Head for happy hour with Tadd, Sarah, Steven and Tacy, during which we all talked about our various blogs and writing in general. Being inspired, I stayed up rather later writing the previous post, and the bulk of this one. Opened again, up unmercifully early. Result: somewhere around 7 hours (which, you will notice is getting back toward normal).
Thursday night: was a surprise birthday party for Wendy. It was particularly surprising to her since her actual birthday was at the end of January. She did not see this one coming. I stayed 'till one-thirty-ish then, as I finally did not have to open at Starbucks, I crashed until around noon this morning.
I think perhaps I might just be caught up in time for the weekend.
Showing posts with label sleep. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sleep. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Tiredness Part I (an introduction)
Dawn has never broken gently over me.
I have had roommates and housemates who literally do that little happy-morning-flounce as their eyes are opening long before first light. I have personally never had the energy nor the inclination for this particular display of early birdieness; I distinctly remember as a child the flowing tears when I realized that I "really did have to wake up now." Of course at that time in my life I would cry over such minor things that it seemed I was single-handedly trying to make the high desert in which I lived into a tropical climate. Still, those ante meridiem hours were always especially trying. Mom would try to forestall the tears and rouse me with OJ and back scratches on several occasions, but my owlishness was deeply seeded. Even through college my morning routine consisted of groggily rolling over, pulling on the clothes closest to me (which explains my deplorable fashion for many years), and hobbling as quickly as possible off to work or class or whatever event I was about to be late for. All of that talk of birds and worms, and morning people generally being more productive than we the creatures of the night served equally to motivate and annoy me.
This being another of my years of adventure and personal growth, I decided to convert to the Sunrisen. To change my spots I signed up for the opening shift four (sometimes five) days a week at said Green Apron House. Now instead of orange juice and back rubs I am awakened by the grating and buzzing of my cell phone alarm, a cold brisk walk and the prospect of a ten hour working day.
I am actually quite proud of how well I have adjusted to this new extra early morning lifestyle. But this week has been quite the beast. You must understand that I have retained that college mentality that I can catch up on my sleep later and I won't miss the winks too badly. This theory is true until you either pile up too many lack-sleep-a-days in a row or cut the nights too short. This week I did both.
I have had roommates and housemates who literally do that little happy-morning-flounce as their eyes are opening long before first light. I have personally never had the energy nor the inclination for this particular display of early birdieness; I distinctly remember as a child the flowing tears when I realized that I "really did have to wake up now." Of course at that time in my life I would cry over such minor things that it seemed I was single-handedly trying to make the high desert in which I lived into a tropical climate. Still, those ante meridiem hours were always especially trying. Mom would try to forestall the tears and rouse me with OJ and back scratches on several occasions, but my owlishness was deeply seeded. Even through college my morning routine consisted of groggily rolling over, pulling on the clothes closest to me (which explains my deplorable fashion for many years), and hobbling as quickly as possible off to work or class or whatever event I was about to be late for. All of that talk of birds and worms, and morning people generally being more productive than we the creatures of the night served equally to motivate and annoy me.
This being another of my years of adventure and personal growth, I decided to convert to the Sunrisen. To change my spots I signed up for the opening shift four (sometimes five) days a week at said Green Apron House. Now instead of orange juice and back rubs I am awakened by the grating and buzzing of my cell phone alarm, a cold brisk walk and the prospect of a ten hour working day.
I am actually quite proud of how well I have adjusted to this new extra early morning lifestyle. But this week has been quite the beast. You must understand that I have retained that college mentality that I can catch up on my sleep later and I won't miss the winks too badly. This theory is true until you either pile up too many lack-sleep-a-days in a row or cut the nights too short. This week I did both.
More the day after Tomorrow
Thursday, October 9, 2008
On Locales
Everyone knows about Townies and Bumpkins: those particular people who simply cannot live without __(fill in the blank)
a. neon lights shining down on their repose, the gentle lowing of taxi horns and uncontrolled radio decibels, and the company of those so rich that if they were a garden they could feed a small country and can locate planets with their very high noses.
-or-
b. crickets (and other creatures far too small to be able to emit sounds at the volume that they do) hosting raves, winds sweeping through the plains and the shutters, and the cracks around the door, a wake-up call performed far too early by the sun, and the company of quadrupeds.
Such categories as City Slicker and Hillbilly are easily defined, and those who fit into them are even easier to spot. But I fit into an entirely different slot. I am a Suburbanite. A Cul-de-sac-ee. One who was born at the end of the asphalt, but could look down the street and see one of the last pairs of horses actually kept within city limits. My family was made for this kind of life. There was the perfect "field" for us to play in, until the builders actually developed that two-acre plot. And there were trees that were climb-able as long as we weighed less than 50 pounds, but really, one shouldn't expect too much from a tree that was only planted twenty years ago. And then there was my family. We were made to live in a neighborhood. Large and friendly, we were absent-minded in that way which necessitates borrowing sugar from the clan next door because no one remembered to put it on the shopping list. The children of the street formed a docile gang whose dangerous activities included playing Uno in the middle of the street or a round of Truth-or-Dare which forced someone near the outhouse the construction workers had been using all month. When we felt particularly edgy, we would attack a house with rolls and rolls of toilet paper. Our logic was that we could trick everyone into thinking that we were innocent if we merely TP-ed one of our own houses. Of course the next morning we would have to clean up our own mess, but we never seemed to mind.
With this sort of background, it is no wonder that I have some trouble adjusting to life downtown. I've learned that between the loud talking or singing stumblers, the high heels on bricks which sound as though an old fashioned horse and cart is walking through my room, and the streetlamp perfectly positioned to shine like a very close and very unfortunately unmoving sun directly in my face, sleeping in the city is a skill. Fortunately my day expired around 2 1/2 hours ago, and so I will have no need to work particularly hard in order to sleep tonight. Right now, actually.
a. neon lights shining down on their repose, the gentle lowing of taxi horns and uncontrolled radio decibels, and the company of those so rich that if they were a garden they could feed a small country and can locate planets with their very high noses.
-or-
b. crickets (and other creatures far too small to be able to emit sounds at the volume that they do) hosting raves, winds sweeping through the plains and the shutters, and the cracks around the door, a wake-up call performed far too early by the sun, and the company of quadrupeds.
Such categories as City Slicker and Hillbilly are easily defined, and those who fit into them are even easier to spot. But I fit into an entirely different slot. I am a Suburbanite. A Cul-de-sac-ee. One who was born at the end of the asphalt, but could look down the street and see one of the last pairs of horses actually kept within city limits. My family was made for this kind of life. There was the perfect "field" for us to play in, until the builders actually developed that two-acre plot. And there were trees that were climb-able as long as we weighed less than 50 pounds, but really, one shouldn't expect too much from a tree that was only planted twenty years ago. And then there was my family. We were made to live in a neighborhood. Large and friendly, we were absent-minded in that way which necessitates borrowing sugar from the clan next door because no one remembered to put it on the shopping list. The children of the street formed a docile gang whose dangerous activities included playing Uno in the middle of the street or a round of Truth-or-Dare which forced someone near the outhouse the construction workers had been using all month. When we felt particularly edgy, we would attack a house with rolls and rolls of toilet paper. Our logic was that we could trick everyone into thinking that we were innocent if we merely TP-ed one of our own houses. Of course the next morning we would have to clean up our own mess, but we never seemed to mind.
With this sort of background, it is no wonder that I have some trouble adjusting to life downtown. I've learned that between the loud talking or singing stumblers, the high heels on bricks which sound as though an old fashioned horse and cart is walking through my room, and the streetlamp perfectly positioned to shine like a very close and very unfortunately unmoving sun directly in my face, sleeping in the city is a skill. Fortunately my day expired around 2 1/2 hours ago, and so I will have no need to work particularly hard in order to sleep tonight. Right now, actually.
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