I was just standing outside, supervising the dogs’ morning constitutional in the chilly backyard. I was shivering, but not from the cold. More from being sleepy. I was listening, as I mostly try not to, to the noise pollution that comes as a result of living a quarter mile from an Interstate (even if you can’t see it for the marsh and the trees), a football field’s distance from a major state road, and on one of the only north-south roads to cross-over the aforementioned Interstate. A random, rhythmic cacophony of white noises, punctuated by blares and screeches and thumps that I effectively tune out the majority of the time.
The dogs were done with business, and Maurice especially wanted to potter around (he’s a very busy dog), but I had to call them in. There was laundry to switch, breakfast to be made, myself to be made ready to face the six and a half hours of work I have to endure.
And, as I have since I went back to part time work earlier this summer, I counted the number of days until I return to full time work. And I found I could do it on my two hands. Now, suddenly, long lazy afternoons at home to play with my small boy, to play on the internet, to write, to make dinner for my family, approach extinction at an alarming rate.
And I resent it.
I resent the intrusion of this thing I must do, when there are so many other things I want to do, not the least of which is go back to bed for another hour or so.
I am aware that my experience is not unique. I am aware, acutely so, that I am lucky to have the paycheck I require, given the state of things. I am also aware that there are people who genuinely love the work they do, and for whom this struggle is minimal, or perhaps even non-existent. I used to love this work of mine. And even when it started to go sour, I still didn’t mind getting out of bed in the morning.
I have, I guess, lost my taste for it.
And my bed was a warm, squashy haven this morning until the alarm went off and spoiled everything.
And the noise pollution this particular morning begged me to write about it, but there just wasn’t time to do it properly.