Night Shift

Okay, time for the wah-wahs.

I am sick of night shift. I'm sick of choosing between living and sleep and of waking up to barking dogs, vacuum cleaners and kids playing on the back yard swings. I'm sick of being backwards from everyone else, trying to drink my coffee in my bathrobe at three pm. No one respects a bathrobe at three pm. I'm sick of needing to organize myself so that I can leap out of bed, make eight phone calls and a chiropractor appointment before the rest of the world closes shop at five o'clock.

Long ago when I lived with my old boyfriend Derek, we lived at night. I suppose I liked it then. The world was so quiet, and no one was watching how much we drank at two in the morning. I liked smoking cigarettes on the front steps and looking at the stars. Driving was fun at night, those empty roads so free of other headlights and law enforcement. Other than the occasional noise complaint, we did all right at night. But then, I had no responsibilities. Also, I was twenty-four.

Ah yes, things change. Bodies like mine that have taken a severe and prolonged chemical beating seem to start insisting on some basics of health. Like sleep, for instance. At night. Violating my circadian rhythm is wearing on me like bad break pads on a rotor.

However, the end is in sight, so you'd think I could just shut up about it. Unfortunately I am so tired that my eyes are burning and everything seems either funny or stupid.

And I have the wah-wahs. It's my party and dammit, I'll cry if I want to.