I woke up for no reason on my own, looked at the clock, and went, “Ack! 5:45, what the heck?!” Then I kicked the husband and hissed, “DID. YOU. TURN. OFF. MY. ALARM. LAST. NIGHT?!?!” at him.
“Murfle mutter whaza larm? Sor-rah, zzzzzz…” he replied. So I kicked him again, got up, and squinted more closely at the alarm – because it wasn’t light enough outside for 5:45 to be an accurate measure of time, so, something was wrong.
My alarm was off. But it was not 5:45 a.m.
It was 1:19 a.m. And the alarm clock was sitting with the husband’s setting displayed. So I pushed all the buttons until they were doing the right thing again, got back into bed, gave him one last kick out of pure spite (nobody hates a sleeper like an insomniac, let-me-tell-you) (and no, I didn’t really kick him repeatedly…but I THOUGHT about doing it!), and tried to go back to sleep.
And then had to give myself a serious pep-talk to get my carcass out of bed when the alarm finally ticked around to the buzzing-spot.
There was vigorous and whining opposition to the idea. I don’t WAAAAAANA…I’m tiiiiiired…and also my STOMACH hurts, plus my HEAD hurts, and also I think I’ve got CRAAAAAAMPS again…
But when I told myself that after all, it wasn’t like rabid alligators had chewed my feet off in the night, which pretty much meant I could, in fact, still walk…well. I couldn’t really argue with me, there. The lack of rabid alligators in one’s life makes such things as being tired and/or crampy and/or headachy seem somewhat less important.
You know, comparatively-speaking.
BUT STILL. I mean, see, thing is, I already wasn’t exactly sleeping soundly before the initial wake-for-no-reason-other-than-serendipity thing at 1:19. And then I was irritatingly aware that I didn’t get back to sleep afterward, but was just kind of dozing or
So I’m not just tired. I’m like, stupid tired.
But undaunted by such things, I talk myself into getting on the road.
I get to BART. Park. Walk up to the station. And there’s an agent who has flung herself in front of the turnstiles, bellowing “THERE IS NO SERVICE TO SAN FRANCISCO RIGHT NOW! YOU CANNOT GET THERE FROM HERE! WE ARE ADVISING YOU TO SEEK ALTERNATIVE MEANS OF TRANSPORTATION, BY WHICH WE MEAN YOU SHOULD DRIVE YOURSELF THERE!”
I cannot begin to describe the chaos of this scene. Here we all are, allegedly adults, most of us with our car keys jingling away in our pockets, still warm from the ignition switch. And we’re staring at her blankly like we’ve never even heard of these horseless carriages. Heads cocked to one side like the RCA Victor dog. None of us can comprehend what the noises she is making mean. Our lives are being thrown into utter disarray by this. We cannot process what is going on, here.
“Arrrrrrugh? Wha? Wha she say? Me no understand, why she say ‘drive’ word? Drive San Fran? Can DO this? Streets make with go-there for drive-drive, San Fran? Whaaaaaaaa she say?”
I came within a hair of actually asking the poor woman, AND I QUOTE, “But, where am I supposed to park if I’m driving to Montgomery Street station?”
I literally caught it by the barest edges of my teeth before it just fired on off into the air, exposing the degree of my bumble-brain-ed-ness to the whole world.
I’m so glad I did, though. The poor woman had enough to contend with this morning, having to say the same thing over and over and over again to people who wanted to fight with her about it – like she was going to say, “Just kidding! There actually wasn’t a three-alarm blaze that licked over our rails, possibly rendering them completely unsafe! What the heck! All aboard, folks, let’s charge the transbay tunnel and see what happens! WOOT WOOT!!”
Or possibly, “Wow, that is such a compelling argument there! I’ll call Operations immediately and let them know that you, Mr. Joe Guy Who Thinks This is Bull-Spit And Who Pays Taxes And Who Really Just Needs To Get To F@^&@ing Work, says it’s totally OK for us to just go ahead and use the f@^&@ing track. I’m sure they’ll restart service immediately when they hear this brilliant reasoning!”
So I got back into the car and drove home.
And then I had a meeting during which the thing I was most focused on was my headache. And how much effort it took not to take out my bad mood on this poor project manager, who was just trying to get something that more or less resembled an actual plan together.
I suspect howling, “How the @*^&@ should I know how long Task #76 is going to take in hours?! I just @^*&@ing got here, I haven’t even seen how long a NORMAL load takes!!” at him would have been slightly less than helpful.
Then I worked for a while.
Until the tired jumped out from under the desk and bit me on the arse; I became aware that I wasn’t really working, I was just sort of poking around at the same itty-bitty detail like maybe this time it would return a different result.
So I closed the laptop and just walked away from it for a while. I went and got my nails repaired, and pretty much fell asleep at the salon.
Then I fumbled my way into Starbucks and asked for a mocha frap with extra coffee. EXTRA coffee. By which I meant an extra hit from the caffeine-pipe.
I did not say eight coffee.
Guess which one THEY heard?!
They put EIGHT hits of coffee-stuff in that frap. And even though I heard them talking about it, even though the guy who actually made the drink even commented, with that disbelieving laugh people use at Such Times, that “that was kind of a lot,” what they were actually saying with that ‘eight coffee’ thing didn’t register with me.
Until the taste of this thing hit my tongue. Wowzah. The instant the flavor hit, my eyeballs shot open and I was almost like a new woman. But with a preexisting headache.
In related news, I think if I were to have my blood pressure and pulse taken right about then? They’d have been all like, Damn, girl! What have YOU been up to?!
And then I came home and went back to work. Sort of. Except that mostly, I was dreaming up interesting reports that could theoretically be designed out of the new data warehouse…most of them falling into the category of “interesting but ultimately worthless information.” Which is not what we’re going to be after.
So I gave up.
And would rather like a do-over for today.
Or failing that, at least an early bedtime tonight.
Preferably with no rabid alligators, toe-nibblers or otherwise.