Beep Beep Beep

For the last week or so, I’ve been working as a production assistant for the art department on a Toyota commercial. The job – well it’s not one I would put down on my list of life experiences I’ve enjoyed.

There are few daily tasks in life that I don’t relish. The first is, of course, waking up. We’ll come back to that.

The second is showering. I don’t know why, but I’ve never been a big fan. I think it has something to do with the exorbitant amount of time I have to spend drying my hair. Or perhaps it’s that uncomfortable stage between wet and dry. Either way, I don’t look forward to showers, but I’ve learned to live with them.

Third would have to be talking to strangers. I don’t know if you all know this – but I am horrible with people. It’s something innate and I’m not sure what to do about it, but small talk is absolutely beyond me. I’m awkward and uncomfortable and probably put on quite a show while I grapple for something to say.

After that comes driving. I’m a horrible driver, and a good number of you can attest to that. There was a period of time where I couldn’t round a corner without jumping a curb. In trying to acclimate myself to LA driving, I’ve become some sordid combination of timid and don’t-give-a-damn. It’s dangerous.

As you can imagine, the other day when I drove my boss' boss from Santa Monica to Malibu was one of the more awkward experiences in either of our lives, I'm sure.

Another one of life’s simple pleasures I just can’t get into? Returning things. I am my mother’s daughter. I would rather have a $40 sweater rot in my closet with the price tags on than drive to the store and face the cashier. I’m not sure quite the logic behind it. Maybe it’s laziness, but I know at least some of it is the fear that the sales person will decline me and I will be shamed.

So what does my job entail? Waking up at early hours, driving ungodly distances, talking to people, and returning massive quantities of used and unused merchandise. While it may be good for character building – it ain’t pretty.

But I digress.

The point of this blog is not how freakishly uncomfortable I am with the most mundane tasks – it’s to tell you what happened this morning. And in order to do that – I must digress yet again.

When I was in high school I was part of the jazz choir. We would meet at six o’clock in the morning, which meant me getting up at 4:45. On one occasion I vividly remember rolling over and looking a clock which read 5:58. My heart jumped up into my throat then promptly crashed into my gut. The tears began to pour. I couldn’t see, I couldn’t think, but somehow I managed to throw on some clothes, grab my shoes and head out the door.

I am what was once called a goodie-two-shoes. I don’t know why or how that phrase makes sense. Maybe one day I’ll look it up, but until then I’ll just say that it defines me. I have a deeply rooted fear of disappointing people and/or failing. So when I showed up to class fifteen minutes late and haphazardly thrown together, I was ashamed and embarrassed. That ‘T’ on the attendance sheet was like a knife in my heart.

From then on I set two alarms.

Which, of course, didn’t stop it from happening. It’s happened several times in my life. I remember them each like they were yesterday. And they all were followed by a month of dual-alarm wakeups and nights of fitful rest.

Back to the present.

After a week of waking up early, my internal clock was reset. It’s usually set for ten, but working has thrown it out of whack. On Saturday, my first day off, my internal alarm woke me up every hour on the hour, starting at three. Each time I awoke I would begin to panic that my alarm had neglected to go off. By eight o’clock I decided to give up on sleeping and just get on with my day.

So where is this internal clock now?

It’s six o’clock on Monday morning and I sit here at my computer, choking down pancakes that Ryan has concocted with a mix of love and pity. I shouldn’t be here in my apartment. I should be an hour away at the California Speedway. But alas and alack, my alarm did not go off and I did not get up at four.

Those of you who know me can imagine that this morning, even at this early hour, has already seen four or five fits of hysterical crying and self-castigation. And tomorrow will see two alarms.

(I'd like to take this moment to thank Loren, my wickedly awesome boss, who is currently at the Speedway lying her ass off for me.)