Real Life Makes No Sense

I’m only awake because I’m forcing myself to be. I planned to go to bed at 9:30 p.m. Why? I’m a big boy. Wait, what? That doesn’t even make sense. Literally the last time I went to bed at 9:30, I was being dragged away from the TV in footie pajamas screaming bloody murder.

So, when I was 18. HAH! Beat you to the punch. Really though, I can’t remember the last time I went to bed before 11:00. And that’s being generous – accounting for post-Finals week early pass-outs that may or may not have occurred.

But the real culprit is my new job. Which, for the record, I’m diggin’ so far! But nine-hour days sandwiched between two hour-long commutes over the San Rafael bridge is tiring. Exhausting, even.

Tomorrow, I’m waking up at 5:30 a.m. to try and make it to the office by 7:30. I’m testing out all the rush hour scenarios in my first week, because God, Moses and Tim Tebow know I don’t want to spend any more time away from my lovely bed than I absolutely have to.

Being grown up has its perks. When I get my first paycheck, I’m definitely gonna look like this guy (glasses, wrinkles and dentures included – I’m not getting off the “I’m old” bandwagon). And I might even be able to move to Marin County and live as luxuriously as a one-bedroom apartment provides. But the prospect of starting this new life is unbelievably exciting.

I’m looking forward to it, no matter how stretched my facial muscles get from yawning or how many times I nod off and drool on my keyboard.

Feel free to send me words of encouragement, beer baskets or cards with funny cats. Just not between the hours of 9:00 p.m. and 6:00 a.m. Because, well…chances are I’ll be passed the freak out.

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