Morning ritual rut.
I wake up at 1:50 am to the sound of classical music and static from my cheapass wallyworld radio alarm clock.
I fall out of bed on to something hard and/or sharp.
I turn off my radio alarm at the foot of the bed.
I cuss.
Stumble to the other side of the room and turn off my battery powered travel alarm with the really annoying beeper that I use as a back up alarm to keep from falling asleep on my feet (a somewhat disturbing habit that I have of late re-acquired).
I turn on the light.
I cuss.
I stub my already injured big toe on and then trip over a pair of steel toe work boots.
It occurs to me that back when I was an actual human being I regularly went to bed at about this time.
I grab some work clothes from the pile of folded laundry on top of the almost completely empty dresser.
I stumble down the hall to the bathroom, muttering all the way.
I take care of the morning business, and set about the task of shaving the whiskers off of my face.
As my fingers and face go numb, I silently wonder why the bathroom and the water heater are on opposite sides of the house, and the water runs most of that distance through un-insulated pipes.
It occurs to me that this feat of modern engineering (when combined with the miracle invention of the low-flow faucet), insures that in winter my bathroom sink will never have to endure the hardship of actually providing anything that even remotely resembles warm water.
The shower (which is just slightly closer to the water heater, and is also equipped with low flow fixtures) is just sitting there waiting for me, as though it knows that I don't have the time to let the water warm up.
I step in and crank the hot water spigot full open.
The spray of 41 degree water that washes over my neck and chest brings me irreversible awake, nearly taking the air out of me and banishing in an instant any last vestige of warmth and comfort.
I shiver.
I cuss.
I try to remember exactly what it is I'm supposed to be doing.
With jerking palsied movements I slowly set about the task of bathing.
Part of me finds humor in the fact that I have managed to squeeze imprints of my fingers into my bar of relatively hard soap.
I wash as quickly as possible, and step/lurch my way out of the shower just as the water is getting warm (a part of me wonders if the water feels warm because it finally is, or if it is just the early stages of hypothermia).
I towel off and bandage any parts that need bandaging.
I dress, still shivering.
I go to the pantry and pour myself a bowl of cold cereal, which I chase down with a handful of vitamin supplements and a handful of penguin caffeinated peppermints.
I check to make sure that I have everything I will need for the day in my truck.
I give the vehicle a once over, fire it up and pull out of the driveway.
Its 2:45 am.
The bars have been closed for less than an hour; cops, drunks and drunk cops are my only company on the road.
The radio is on, the heater is off, and the day has yet to begin.
Day after day.
Week after week.
No change.
No deviation.
Only 30 more years to go.
I fall out of bed on to something hard and/or sharp.
I turn off my radio alarm at the foot of the bed.
I cuss.
Stumble to the other side of the room and turn off my battery powered travel alarm with the really annoying beeper that I use as a back up alarm to keep from falling asleep on my feet (a somewhat disturbing habit that I have of late re-acquired).
I turn on the light.
I cuss.
I stub my already injured big toe on and then trip over a pair of steel toe work boots.
It occurs to me that back when I was an actual human being I regularly went to bed at about this time.
I grab some work clothes from the pile of folded laundry on top of the almost completely empty dresser.
I stumble down the hall to the bathroom, muttering all the way.
I take care of the morning business, and set about the task of shaving the whiskers off of my face.
As my fingers and face go numb, I silently wonder why the bathroom and the water heater are on opposite sides of the house, and the water runs most of that distance through un-insulated pipes.
It occurs to me that this feat of modern engineering (when combined with the miracle invention of the low-flow faucet), insures that in winter my bathroom sink will never have to endure the hardship of actually providing anything that even remotely resembles warm water.
The shower (which is just slightly closer to the water heater, and is also equipped with low flow fixtures) is just sitting there waiting for me, as though it knows that I don't have the time to let the water warm up.
I step in and crank the hot water spigot full open.
The spray of 41 degree water that washes over my neck and chest brings me irreversible awake, nearly taking the air out of me and banishing in an instant any last vestige of warmth and comfort.
I shiver.
I cuss.
I try to remember exactly what it is I'm supposed to be doing.
With jerking palsied movements I slowly set about the task of bathing.
Part of me finds humor in the fact that I have managed to squeeze imprints of my fingers into my bar of relatively hard soap.
I wash as quickly as possible, and step/lurch my way out of the shower just as the water is getting warm (a part of me wonders if the water feels warm because it finally is, or if it is just the early stages of hypothermia).
I towel off and bandage any parts that need bandaging.
I dress, still shivering.
I go to the pantry and pour myself a bowl of cold cereal, which I chase down with a handful of vitamin supplements and a handful of penguin caffeinated peppermints.
I check to make sure that I have everything I will need for the day in my truck.
I give the vehicle a once over, fire it up and pull out of the driveway.
Its 2:45 am.
The bars have been closed for less than an hour; cops, drunks and drunk cops are my only company on the road.
The radio is on, the heater is off, and the day has yet to begin.
Day after day.
Week after week.
No change.
No deviation.
Only 30 more years to go.
posted by Murph | 1:36 PM
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