I like short work weeks. I really, really do. I like Mondays that feel like Wednesdays and Tuesdays that feel like Thursdays and Wednesdays that end at 2 PM. I like burning CDs for the drive home and thinking of cute places to stop for dinner along the way. I like long drives after so long without. I like going home.
It'll be my brother and me, lost on the open road. His iPod and my CDs and maybe some actual conversation. We're braving the 5 on the day before Thanksgiving, so I imagine we'll have plenty of time to kill.
Das Roomie went home herself, last Friday, and it was a quiet weekend as a result. Cold, too. I had my afghan and pajamas and a thermostat I dared leave at 70, but the chill still crept in.
My room's always very cold in the winter. It makes mornings all the more painful.
I've been sleeping in and oversleeping a lot more recently. My alarm's either broken or on the fritz or I've just exceeded my level of caring. I'm not sure. I just want to sleep. Breakfast, showering, getting to work on time -- these things are beginning to seem more trivial than they should.
On Friday, I fell asleep around midnight, and woke up at three. Couldn't get back to sleep, so instead I lay in bed and watched TiVoed West Wing and listened to the wind blow until I fell back asleep around dawn.
It was a magnificent wind, rustling through the trees, setting off car alarms, setting off change. Hale and hearty, stirring up cyclones of leaves and candy wrappers and dust and dreams. It was a centuries-old wind, rustic, the kind of wind that moves ships forward, through the fog towards land.
Some days, these days, I do feel adrift. Lost on the ocean. Letting the waves rush over me.