It's 3:40 AM again
Here is a list of possible things I can do in the four days I have all to myself this week:
- Frequent the gym
- Cook myself a nice comfort meal
- See a new show from start to end
- Take a walk around the block and grab a drink
- Deep clean the apartment
- Write something new
- Drop my books off at the library and get another
- Prep for next week's meals
And the possibilities are endless.
* * *
This morning, I got out of bed at 3:40 AM and like clockwork, put the kettle on to boil some water for eggs, got the coffee machine running, sliced off some bread and toasted it with butter, and put everything on a plate for the husband and myself to eat. He had an early flight to catch, just like the old days, when we were long-distance. It's the first time in a while that we're going to be so far apart, time zones and all in the mix. After saying my goodbyes, I came back upstairs and happily gave my mother a call. But now I feel tired and could use some of that leftover caffeine. I really don't know what to do with myself until Saturday evening but I'm sure I'll figure something out –– as you can see, the list is long.
Well, can you believe November's already over? Soon, we'll be into 2023 (!) and the pages of the calendar will keep turning. It's been such a long year, partly exhausting, partly exciting. I'm just glad to be home and not traveling. I'm glad to not be living with that woman. That woman. I'll write about her someday. And about how she made me feel like a little brown slave at times. So much so in fact that when P asked me what I was grateful for this Thanksgiving, this is exactly what I said: that I'm not living in a small room of her house anymore.
The years just roll off the recesses of my brain like waves on a shore. Sometimes I could swear I smell the smog on school mornings and see clearly, that time long gone, in my mind's eye. I remember waiting with my parents for the school van and feeling this strong tug deep inside of me as it rolled up and I dragged myself into it. Watching my mother's face fade away. Counting down the hours until I got back home. I hated school and I haven't said it enough. I hated school. And I hated being away from my mother and the comfort of home. I was a very bright kid, yes, and I got very good grades, but that didn't change the fact that I felt entirely out of place at school and the feeling, quite strangely, still lingers sometimes, as a big old adult.
Why do we subject our children to school and heavy bags and three math books that keep changing and getting more expensive year by year? Why do we put them into starched little costumes for this corporate role-play that we call "school"? I changed five schools in my life and just when I was getting comfortable, it was time to go to (a different) high school and then university and then leave the country and then leave the country once more. I have, however, learnt (primarily by watching my husband) that it is very much possible to set roots as you keep moving, by sowing seeds wherever you've been. I've been trying –– trying to be better at this thing called "acquaintanceship" (let's not call it friendship just yet).
Ah well. My head hurts. Time for that cuppa.
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