At risk of our relationship starting off on the wrong foot, I’m a morning person.
I’m not preachy about it. In fact, stay asleep. That’s better - quieter - for me.
Truthfully, this morning-person schtick is a consequence of a bedtime better calibrated for someone either 30 years my junior, or senior. Better calibrated according to whom? I do not know.
Not me.
Anyway, I’m pining for a different WFH setup. And by pining, I mean endlessly scrolling Black Friday sales, wondering how it’s possible to manufacture so much hideous furniture that surely isn’t being purchased by anyone with decent eyesight or a desire for comfort beyond Row 28 of soon to be defunct, actively contradicting its name by virtue of subpar holiday season service, Spirit Airlines.
I remember buying My Cashmere Baseball Cap on the same website as I’m currently scrolling and I message a friend. Fine, I message an ex whom I’m very oddly yet extremely pleasantly close to about buying a backup hat, in the almost certain event that I will manage to soil the first one that arrived only last week.
He checks me financially before I wreck me financially. That’s what friends are for.
I buy a bunch of other things I don’t need anyways.
Am I having the holiday anxieties the rest of you are? Mais, non. Merci, Resy. ‘Tis the season for outsourcing.
Having drained my brain from the North, it’s not a rigo(u)rous event for me. Along with my peers - most of whom are also unable to apply for incredibly fascinating jobs due to lack of US citizenship - we feast, nonetheless. No marshmallows.
No, I will not tell you where.
I’m guilt tripping myself for slacking off today. I tell her to [choose your own adventure]. It’s fine, in thirty minutes I’ll have forgotten about the slothdom that I’ve seemingly subscribed to since my last meeting ended.
I have an espresso as the sun sets, in the least cinematic way possible: under scaffolding, indoors, and it’s freezing outside.