Day Six

(Picking up where I left off before my vacation began. I had hoped to post these daily during that time, but 3G access from Alaska? Rather spotty.)

Your day

During the week I wake up every morning at 5 o’clock. More often than not, the first word that crosses my mind is “Shit,” especially if it’s Monday. I seriously wonder if there will ever come a week when I look forward to Mondays, or at least don’t dread them.

Snooze. Snooze. Typically I hit snooze a third time but then hit the off button. Used to be that I’d wake up before the alarm went off. I can’t seem to recall those days, though I know they happened. Up, grab my workout clothes, shut the door to the bathroom as quietly as possible, then get ready for the morning. Go downstairs, let the dogs out, grab the phone, turn it on while I wait for Dakota and Anya to do their business, usually by the light of the moon. (Well, that and the streetlight in the alley.)

Back inside, feed them both and start the coffee. Turn on the computer. E-mail. Then it’s a choice, whether I waste time or shut the damn thing off, or actually write something, or get up and start my morning walk (if it’s one of those days) or go to the gym or put in one of the torturous workout videos I have.

Chances are, I waste time, then go for the walk.

Back, make more coffee, go upstairs and take a shower. Depending on how close I cut it and how hot it is outside, I drive to work or, preferably, get on my bike.

Work is, well, work. It lasts seven point five hours with an hour for lunch. If I’m having a good day, I get on the bike and head home, let the dogs out, and eat lunch there. Maybe I go to the cafe and eat there. If it’s a bad day, I order it to go and take it back to my desk.

I clench my jaw a lot.

Five o’clock is when I’m supposed to leave, but in practice I leave at five-thirty. I don’t often resent this, because there are plenty of times during the day when I stare off into space and wonder if this is my own version of the life of quiet desperation Betty Friedan was talking about. I get on my bike or get into my car and go the zero-point-nine miles back to the house. Depending on whether I’ve beaten Mike home, I let the dogs out and feed them.

“What’s for dinner?” is probably the most stressful question of the day, mainly because a) I can’t be arsed to make a decision and b) I am beyond caring what I eat by the time I get home anyway. Depending on the mood, we will watch a movie or I’ll spend the evening working on whatever it is I’m writing. Or I just stare at the screen and wonder how the hell I’m going to get myself out of the corner I’ve just written myself into.

Or I just stare at the screen until my forehead bleeds. Then it’s time for bed. Good times.