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January 31, 1998
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Kevin came home wicked late last night, I mean this morning, and by the time I got home to my place it was even later than wicked late. We're talking the wee hours here. The wee small hours when the only other vehicles on the road are police cruisers and sanding trucks. The dark night of the soul when the ramps are slippery and the tender snowflakes drift slowly down into the glare of the high beams, glitter, and are gone. And you wonder why if it's been snowing since early afternoon, there hasn't been any accumulation. And you wonder if you've driven off the edge of reality into one of those cheap movies with the fake snow that's always falling in the background to indicate loneliness and isolation or laughter and merriment depending on the genre. Snow is such a versatile symbol. And you wonder how tight you can hold the steering wheel without your hands going numb before you get to your exit. And you wonder how much longer you can stay awake and wouldn't it have been better to sleep over on the couch in the purple room even without your pillow and your pajamas and your meds and extra feminine supplies... Home to my pillow collection, my denim sheets, my orange cat, my noisy neighbors. . . what are they doing up? After forcing myself awake, how now to go to sleep? I turn on the radio for a repeat of a repeat of the BBC news and All Things Considered. The news hasn't changed. It's the same as it was last night. So long ago. I toss and turn and thrash and toss and turn and kick and toss and turn and get up a zillion times and Wilbur gets up to sleep in the hallway. The zillion+1th time I get up, I notice that Wilbur has dragged the phone all the way down the stairs to the living room. I go down to get it. You never know when you might get a phone call in the wee hours. By now it's 5:00 AM. I finally feel sleep coming on. Wilbur moves the phone again - this time to the hallway. I leave it there. He demands to be petted. I pet him until I fall asleep. Weekend Edition comes on suddenly. I forgot to shut off the alarm. Drat! I get up, shut it off. Go back to bed. Wilbur wants to be petted. I drift in and out of sleep. The phone rings. I find it, answer it, tell Nancy I feel awful, realize it's futile to go back to bed when the day's half over. My head feels like it had a close encounter with one of those sanding trucks last night. My mouth feels like Saudi Arabia. How can I have a hangover when I haven't had a drink in 9 years? This ain't no hangover, this is sleep deprivation and dehydration. Gotta get some water. Gotta get some coffee. Gotta get some sleep! Umm, gotta do the laundry... To the laundromat as unattainable as Virginia Woolf's lighthouse. No, no, I'll make it to the laundry before the end of summer, before the end of the day today, yes. I can do this . Laundry. Walk with Joan-east and Priscilla from the laundromat up to Phillips Academy and back. I fall behind on the hill. My legs are feeling the lack of sleep. We stop to look at a sculpture outside the Addison Gallery. It looks like a crushed car wreck. We are clueless as to what it is supposed to be. By the time I get back to the car, I just want to go back to bed. Instead, I decide my running shoes are totally shot. No support at all. Best go to the New Balance outlet in Lawrence right now while I'm thinking about it. Much discussion about whether running shoes or walking shoes provide more support. Much more discussion about what styles are available in my size. Finally I emerge with one black pair of walking shoes and a white pair of running shoes. At home, I sit down to watch the news just to make sure Clinton is still president and we haven't invaded Iraq. I fall asleep in the chair, waking an hour later ravenously hungry and having totally missed the news. | |
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