OK, so my regular readers (and you know who you are. And you’re my FAVORITES!) will remember that a few months ago I changed jobs. And also that this new job is better then my old job, which was not a BAD job, per say (who uses that word in actual conversation, really?) but was not the right job for me. And also that this new job is much more rightly for me and I’m liking it better.
That said, I still hate having a job.
If I were writing this at 2pm I probably couldn’t really sell it, because I always hate my jobs much, much more between 7am and 10am then any other time. Because only my jobs (that at that time I’m hating) could make me get up before 9am. Constantly. Something like 5 days out of 7. And this I very much hate.
On the weekends? On the weekends I feel noble to the point of deserving McDonno’s sinful breakfasty goodness if I even THINK about getting up before 9am! And when I do get up at 9am I am overwhelmed by the number of things I can get done before noon, because often the only thing I’m for sure getting done before noon on a weekend is GET UP. It’s not that I’m lazy. (LIE. I am TOTALLY LAZY. But it’s not JUST that I’m lazy. It’s so, so, SO much more then that!) I just really, really hate mornings.
Really, REALLY, SUPER-BIGTIME-WITH-WHIPPED-CREAM-AND-HOT-FUDGE-BUT-NO-NUTS – WHO-THE-HECK-DECIDED-SUNDAES-SHOULD-HAVE-NUTS???—ON-TOP-HATE-MORNINGS!!!!
I’ve had people – people who are obviously morning people and who will never, ever get it – tell me “oh, you just need to make sure that you’re getting to sleep early enough, getting enough sleep, getting good sleep, and then you’ll just leap out of bed both cheery AND bright and greet the day with a song in your heart.” Obviously I respond to this craziness with the appropriately lengthy (5 seconds minimum) raspberry, with lots of spit. Because hating the mornings has nothing to do with the previous night’s sleep. It has to do with mornings being early and bad.
And so every weekday morning I start the day with the following:
Alarm goes off and I think “seriously?” followed, so immediately as to possibly be part of the exact same previous thought, with “crap.” And then I lie there for a few minutes trying to figure out if there’s any bonafide reason I should call in sick to work. Which is hysterical because I don’t call in sick to work when I’m really sick, so there’s no way I would call in sick when I’m just hating the mornings. But I have to push through that thought anyway. And then I get up and drag myself to the kitchen to put a Pepsi in the freezer (shut up) and let out any and all kitties who want to go out. And then I do the rest of the getting up, but until I’m out of the shower there’s still the monologue in my head trying to figure out if I’m “sick.” Because maybe I am, and if I am I could go back to bed.
Side note: my girl kitty is a morning kitty. Not the boy – he knows better, and about half of the time when I wake up he’s lying next to me, completely zonked, and when the alarm wakes him up he opens one eye just enough to give me the “Seriously? Crap.” Look. Which he then follows-up with a super-cute cuddle maneuver and purring and several other dirty cat tricks designed to persuade me that I should call in sick. He really does not help the process. Lulu, however, is more then happy to jump on the bed and move immediately to my bladder, where she Irish-jigs until I’m forced to get up for the sake of the clean sheets. She’s evil but effective. And in the mornings I consider selling her back to the shelter. End side note.
All of this is just to say that the job I have right now is plenty excellent for being a job, and I’m not planning to leave it for any other jobs. What I do hope to do someday is find a way to make a living that doesn’t require me to get up for anyone’s business but my own. And whenever I damn well want to. Which will pretty much never be before 9am. Right now I think my best chance (which is saying durn near close to no chance at all) is as a writer, which I like doing and which I don’t have to do at a certain time, so yay. And which I’d like to think I do pretty well, but frankly I only have my best beloved friends to tell me otherwise and they already know they should only say glowy good things about my writing because I’m fragile and could pout if otherwise. Which NOBODY needs to see.
So I’ll keep getting up, but I’m gonna keep writing too, and doing it whenever I can so I can get good and figure out a way to do more then distract me from my other stuff, but rather also make a living at it. And then I can quit this job and never have another “job” again because instead I’ll be “a writer.” Who gets up at 9am. All. The. Time.
(And all of you people with kids who are about to tell me that I should never have kids because it means you never get to sleep in can just stop, because I know this and because I’ll burn that bridge if I ever get to have kids and because hey, if you knew anybody at all with kids before you had them then you already knew this was coming and therefore no sympathy for you! Until I do someday have kids! And have to get up! In which case at that point I’ll have sympathy for you if you have sympathy for me?)