the practice of being late
Dec. 19th, 2018 06:57 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
chickentimeschickenwaysUp at six for work today; I have a midweek shift at the coffee shop while they're short-handed (two people left last week).
There is nothing quite like rising before the light to fill my crap heart with despair. I feel reasonably sure that there is no modern profession where I can tie my hours firmly to the daylight currently being experienced; but --
Yesterday some sort of officially important person (a senior vice-president, maybe?) was touring around my location of [large box store], and all of my coworkers were feverishly rushing around with brooms and paper towels and spray cleaner in anticipation. I didn't pick up on what was happening until a couple hours into my shift, at which point I clarified who the "them" being discussed in such anxious tones was.
I waited with some dread for them to come back to my corner, as Tuesday is my slow day, and therefore the day I look least like a useful human being; but when I asked, I was told they'd already come and gone.
I came home and ate tater tots.
Dreaming of being anywhere but here (well, who isn't?), though I've nearly accepted that this has nothing to do with where "here" is. I am weirdly and quietly satisfied that this part of my life will have a whole glorious soundtrack to remember it by: most current is II, by Khun Narin, and a song by Oumou Sangaré off the Mali Music album.
There is nothing quite like rising before the light to fill my crap heart with despair. I feel reasonably sure that there is no modern profession where I can tie my hours firmly to the daylight currently being experienced; but --
Yesterday some sort of officially important person (a senior vice-president, maybe?) was touring around my location of [large box store], and all of my coworkers were feverishly rushing around with brooms and paper towels and spray cleaner in anticipation. I didn't pick up on what was happening until a couple hours into my shift, at which point I clarified who the "them" being discussed in such anxious tones was.
I waited with some dread for them to come back to my corner, as Tuesday is my slow day, and therefore the day I look least like a useful human being; but when I asked, I was told they'd already come and gone.
I came home and ate tater tots.
Dreaming of being anywhere but here (well, who isn't?), though I've nearly accepted that this has nothing to do with where "here" is. I am weirdly and quietly satisfied that this part of my life will have a whole glorious soundtrack to remember it by: most current is II, by Khun Narin, and a song by Oumou Sangaré off the Mali Music album.
