Yesterday, after a four-hour shift at the college (flanked by an hourlong commute on either side), I cleaned my apartment for a bit and had a quick lunch in the couple hours before I had to leave for my restaurant shift at 5, which mercifully let me out before 11, and then, sans dinner, I fell asleep at around midnight and so now it’s Sunday, The Day of Study, where I like to keep a routine of going to Starbucks super early, like 7 a.m., until Pasion del Cielo opens at 9, and then I migrate over to Pasion and I read The New Yorker, or random essays and articles, and I sip my coffee in a leisurely way and then I do a bunch of writing to prepare for the week and eventually make my way over to North Italia where I have one or two IPAs (Sierra Nevada’s Hazy Little Thing) and usually edit a podcast script or some particularly rough draft of a forthcoming blog post.
But now it’s 11:30 and I just got to Pasion. Overslept. And when I got to the coffee shop there was a serpentine line that was folded three ways in order to fit in the front hall…
I feel like my whole day is fucked. Obviously I’m writing this, and maybe I’ll get around to writing something else, but this disruption, this loss of five hours, feels lowkey cataclysmic–which I hate to admit, cuz it makes me sound like the picky curmudgeon I’m slowly becoming but…it’s the truth.
And I’m extra mad about it because I woke up at 7:30, which was later than I’d like, but still manageable; I closed my eyes for one more quick indulgent doze and then suddenly it was 9:30–after which I apparently fell asleep again because when I pulled my phone off the nightstand after what felt like ten minutes I saw that it was in fact 10:30.
At which point I sprang outta bed, livid, and made for the shower.
But whatever. I’ve got this new job that’s physically demanding, it keeps me on my feet and in constant motion for hours at a time and, yesterday, it took that toll on me after I’d already been awake since virtually the crack of dawn, driving, tutoring students, cleaning.
I can tell myself that my body needed the extra sleep, but it does nothing to alleviate the frustration.
Which is actually making my hands shake when I think of it too hard.
I was listening recently to a wonderful interview of David Remnick, conducted by Ezra Klein, in which they commiserate at length about how much they resent sleep, the fact that it steals a third of our lives.
Remnick, in his irrepressible habit of getting things just right, calls the whole phenomenon of sleep “insulting.”
Klein says of the contempt he feels for sleep that he thinks it’s a Jewish thing, that he should hate this so much.
Remnick says no, it’s not a Jewish thing. It’s just insulting.