Divided in Three
So conveniently divisible these twenty-four hours are! You could almost believe some genius designed it. With days of equal parts sleep, work, and personal freedom - the trifecta of human fulfillment - why are we not all buzzing around like happy honey bees, imagining none other than the lives we live?
Because simplicity died with the first millenium, that's why. Name me anyone today who can live by the 8-8-8 schedule. Please. I truly want to speak with anyone who can do it. For the last couple days I've been trying desperately for such trifection*. The reason: a nearly disasterous morning drive, during which I had to open my window and stick my head into the winter wind just to keep from dozing off at seventy miles an hour.
But eight hours of sleep leaves a mere sixteen hours for work and freedom - the former taking up well more than it's share, what with preparatory routine, commute, lunch, and commute2; the latter being a commodity of which I hate to surrender a minute. "Freedom" as it is, in my life anyway, doesn't refer to some empty-handed lounging around a fireplace or anything. I've got shit to do, and it can't come out of work time (dammit) and it can't come out of sleep time - because now I'm scared - so what does this leave? Am I going to have to learn to be (gasp!) efficient?
Yes, as it turns out, probably, I am. I know I can't go on sleeping just four to five hours a night, as I have done since late high school. I know I shouldn't persist in dreaming of joblessness; not even I can make that stylish too many more times than I already have. So, assuming I won't sell my soul for a PlayStation, there are about five hours I've got left every day for everything I want to do, everything that's good and fun, everything that matters.
*Not a word.
Because simplicity died with the first millenium, that's why. Name me anyone today who can live by the 8-8-8 schedule. Please. I truly want to speak with anyone who can do it. For the last couple days I've been trying desperately for such trifection*. The reason: a nearly disasterous morning drive, during which I had to open my window and stick my head into the winter wind just to keep from dozing off at seventy miles an hour.
But eight hours of sleep leaves a mere sixteen hours for work and freedom - the former taking up well more than it's share, what with preparatory routine, commute, lunch, and commute2; the latter being a commodity of which I hate to surrender a minute. "Freedom" as it is, in my life anyway, doesn't refer to some empty-handed lounging around a fireplace or anything. I've got shit to do, and it can't come out of work time (dammit) and it can't come out of sleep time - because now I'm scared - so what does this leave? Am I going to have to learn to be (gasp!) efficient?
Yes, as it turns out, probably, I am. I know I can't go on sleeping just four to five hours a night, as I have done since late high school. I know I shouldn't persist in dreaming of joblessness; not even I can make that stylish too many more times than I already have. So, assuming I won't sell my soul for a PlayStation, there are about five hours I've got left every day for everything I want to do, everything that's good and fun, everything that matters.
*Not a word.
posted by Tracy at 6:57 PM
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