It's been over five years since I became single again, and still, I wake up on my side of the bed. It's 5:10 a.m. I click off the alarm with a pathetic sense of superiority, having prevented the assault of the "BEEP," "BEEP," "BEEP" scheduled for 5:26. It's pitch black out.
I lie there for a few minutes, resisting the day ahead of me. Eight hours in a cubicle. Writing cover sheets to TPS reports. No meetings to break up the day. A laugh here and there with co-workers, but mostly lots of gazing blankly into a screen, my mind far, far away. I won't have my life back until 4:20 this afternoon, when I'll return home and click on the TV to catch the rest of Oprah. That's 11 hours from now--half a day away. In the meantime, I feel like the star of my own commercial for Amnesty International.
I head to the bathroom to pee and weigh myself. Super--up a half pound, even though I've been diligently exercising every day. Muscle weighs more, I rationalize. I may have to give up beer to drop the weight I want to get rid of, but that's a quality of life issue.
As my decaf brews, I sit at a kitchen table that used to be my father's and check my email. I see my ex in New Zealand is online and send him an instant message. No reply. It's 1:30 in the morning there; he probably went to sleep. I have no side of his bed, but he's offered to make one for me.
How can I refuse?
Then I'll be able to give up beer.