Woke up, got out of bed, dragged a comb across my head
A day in the life: Here’s the proceedings of my Tuesday. I woke up at 6:30, anticipating my alarm by 15 minutes (I almost always anticipate my alarm by 15 minutes). I am glad it is morning; I am glad to see the sun.
I pack my lunch, including a turkey sandwich. I am skeptical of the turkey. When I was at the deli at Rainbow, I saw a new, store brand turkey that was on mega-sale, and I thought, how different could the store brand be? Eh, it was kind of fatty. Not real bad, but as I took my shower, and so on, I thought, God, I will be unhappy to encounter that fatty turkey at lunch. So I finally grossed myself out enough that I packed something else. The turkey’s going in the trash.
I arrive at work and my bike has to hang out with me in the lab for a while. The lock had gotten jammed the day before. Fortunately, not while the bike was locked to anything; the lock was just locked on itself. But that left my bike without any security so I spent the morning tripping over my bike indoors. Over lunch I went to the bike shop and they gave me a new lock, for free, which wasn’t a bad deal.
The afternoon wore on as I continued working on the blessÚd cardiography paper. At work my ivory tower syndrome kicks in—I feel the blood drain from my face, the bags deepen beneath my eyes, my body temperature plummets, my brain slow to an uncreative crawl. I leave in the afternoon like Lazarus freshly risen from the dead. The world, people, sunshine, I forgot they were there.
I go to Rainbow, to get something other than the godawful turkey, and some other things. I want something quick for dinner, so I get insta-microwave-Thai-in-a-box (comical, that in the organic-natural-hippie food section, you can find insta-food). There’s a really nice woman who tends the self-service lines that I had met a few days ago, and she’s there again. I’m glad to see her.
I go home and go for a run. Some random guy asked me if I was “training for soccer” (we have some interesting characters in my neighborhood).
Upon return I have dinner, the long-awaited insta-Thai (it was some kind of peanut curry over rice noodles). It wasn’t bad. I do the dishes, and fold the laundry. These are both relatively pleasant chores. The thoughtless repetition is good. I think there’s pretty solid evidence that repetitive activity helps calm the body and mind; this is probably why autistic folks do the hand flapping thing, etc. In the end, we all have our own subtle versions of hand flapping; they’re just not things that other people can really observe.
As I am washing the dishes, “A Day in the Life” pops into my head. And an interesting logic arises: “That’s a really good song. The Beatles, they would understand me. The Beatles are from England. People from England would understand me. I should go to England.” The logic is flawed but if anyone has a spontaneous urge to show me London, then I’m ready to go.
So, here we are, 10:15 p.m., I am writing this. I will go to bed now. I am running out of good bedtime reading material. Recently I rediscovered Octavio Paz in my bookshelf. I had to read him for Intro to Literary Analysis, one of my Spanish classes. At first his writing has the feel of something very significant—and he is featured on some denomination or other of the Mexican peso—but then, after a while, he occasionally digresses into what may be haphazard, self-important self-indulgence. (Sorry, Octavio, no hard feelings). Anyways, I do have a tendency after I read things to adopt their style into my own stream of consciousness. Which may explain what I’ve just written here.