My body continues to betray me with the “only getting five hours of sleep a night” thing. I go to bed around 11:30 and maybe fall asleep around midnight, and some little demon deep inside my brain has been waking me up every morning at 5:00 am, screaming “It’s time to get up! No more sleep for you!”
When my conscious mind replies, “Fuck you, it is not time to get up yet,” and roll over to get a few more winks, the little demon says, “Oh yes it is,” and to prove it, he makes my eyes pop open and somehow also makes it impossible for me to close them again.
I’ve been at work by 7 for the last week and a half, and while it is nice to leave the office early in the afternoon, what good is it if I’m 1) braindead after lunch and 2) have to go home first thing after work and take a nap?
At this very moment, it is 12:25 am and since I have the day off tomorrow, the problem seems to be that I can’t fall asleep. Crap. Once again, I’ll say it. THE MENOPAUSE IS KILLING ME HERE.
GE called tonight and we had a great conversation. He wanted to get together and try for a bike ride over the weekend, but I’m going up to the hinterlands of Pennsylvania for the holiday to make sure my mother’s okay, what with with her recent pacemaker insertion and all. So he and I are getting together next week after work one night. Oh my goodness, could it be? A FOURTH date?
Why, it’s almost unheard of around these parts.
Right after I talked to GE, I had a phone conversation with another madtchdot guy I’ve been emailing for a few weeks. He’s an Air Force officer who races bikes and I must say he had a very sexy voice on the phone. The pleasure stopped there, because although I liked his voice, what he had to say was zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. He talked exclusively about himself, was so overbearing I could hardly get a word in edgewise, and all he seemed to require was that I say “Uh-huh” every once in a while. Also, the bike racing talk. Zzzzzzzzzzz. I think by the end of the conversation it was clear we were not made for each other, because we made no plans to meet.
When I asked him what his favorite kind of music was, he said, “Smooth jazz.”
Eek! Shoot me now. No, shoot *him* now. A bazillion demerits for lovers of the “smooth jazz.”
The good thing about it was this: it made the fact that GE and I hit it off right from the start (including the first phone contact) seem even more rare and wonderful.