Back to work

The party's over. Everybody back to work. Yesterday I was prepared for it to be a bit of a disaster since, for me, coming back from vacation, even when I haven't traveled at all, requires a time adjustment that is not unlike the battle to overcome jetlag. On Saturday night (if you will) I went to bed at 3am and then got up at noon on Sunday. Unsurprisingly, I could then neither sleep on Sunday night, nor wake with any ease on Monday morning. Having shuffled into the office, I discovered that the heater was broken in my part of the building. It was about 47 degrees out and raining. (Please don't go on about how 47 degrees is practically balmy compared to sooooo many other places. I wasn't in so many other places. I was here. And it was cold. Very cold.) I did not unbutton my coat all day, nor remove my scarf. At one point, I put my gloves on, but typing was hard. It was all somewhat Dickensian. I did not enjoy it. Where were my slippers and constant supply of movies and books and pots of tea and snacks and blankets? Nowhere, that's where. Ah, vacation. How I miss you already.

Now it is a bright new day. It is no longer raining. It is several degrees warmer. However, after another night of thrashy, unsatisfying sleep, I dragged myself out to move my car for street cleaning. And then proceeded to drive in circles for 20 minutes, unable to find a single parking place anywhere proximate to my home. I could not simply drive to work since I was wearing an ensemble that was basically built around pajamas. Finally, I found a spot, returned home, and took a shower. Then, having dried about 30% of my hair, my hairdryer broke. No fanfare. No burny smell. No weird noise. Just ceased to function. I refused to walk to work with 70% wet hair, partially because of vanity, partially because of fear of pneumonia. I got dressed, went upstairs, and borrowed a hairdryer from my neighbor (thanks, Nicole!) which then for some reason, I couldn't get to work in the bathroom? So maybe my hairdryer isn't actually broken? Who knows. No time to figure that out this morning. I dried my hair in the living room, walked to work in not-so-great-for-walking-to-work shoes, and arrived 40 minutes late. Ta da!

In my real life, I wouldn't even be out of bed yet.


One small discovery, though, made while tromping to work. What smells more Christmasy than Christmas? The garbage truck that is gathering up discarded trees from street corners and pulverizing them. Obscurely depressing to witness? Yes. But so, so fragrant.