Living on the third floor of my apartment building was a horrible decision that I tend to hate myself daily for making. Since I hate to take more than one trip from car to front door, I load myself up with everything I need to take in with me and slowly, and painfully, hike up the three sets of cement stairs. Tonight seemed exceedingly painful because yesterday I waited tables for ten hours straight due to the Mother's Day rush, and today I worked my day job then returned to the restaurant for another severing shift. My feet just seem to be constantly sore. I actually don't remember the last day they didn't hurt. Regardless, I had to get upstairs loaded down with a bag of work clothes, my purse, leftover food from the restaurant, a Walgreens bag of shampoo and tampons, cell phone and keys. The very sweet rose that a "friend" left on my windshield was held by my teeth since that was literally the last option. Once I turned to start walking up the third and final set of stairs, I feel my body deciding that if I just stopped there and called it a night...it would be cool with that. I guess the outdoor landing between the floors might have been cold but apparently still an acceptable option for bed tonight. Maybe I could use the cardigan from my work outfit as a blanket and the bag as a pillow. I would have a late night snack and tampons (just in case).
Luckily I fought the urge to give up and pushed through the last set of stairs. After I coordinated the, always awkward, fumble to still hold the contents in my arms AND unlock the door, I literally dropped everything just past the entryway. The entryway is where everything ends up. It reminded me of what my mother used to do growing up. She would create a pile of things next to the top of the stairs of things that needed to go downstairs and eentually it would all get down there. It was almost like an assembly line. Car to entryway, sits at entryway for a few days, eventually gets properly put away. It's a slow process, but effective.
As I was busing my last table tonight, I dropped a ramekin of ketchup. If you have ever waited tables in an establishment that has hardwood floors, you know what happens when you drop a full ramekin. It doesn't just drop and spill on the floor, it bounces and flings its contents with every impact with the ground. Luckily, this time there were no guests left in the restaurant. The last time I dropped a full ramekin, we had to buy the food for three tables because BBQ sauce ended up on at least 6 people. Tonight though, the floor, wall, table and me, from forehead to toe, were its only victims. So after dropping everything at the entryway, getting this gross uniform off and washing my face and bangs were top priority.
Finally, the day came to an end and I was allowed to crawl back into my, not-so-comfortable bed with extremely flat and unsupportive pillows, and try to turn off the"To Do" list that seems to run in a loop in my head. I turned on my Eric Hutchinson Pandora station and pulled the sheets over my head. I'm in my quiet, safe and peaceful place. In an attempt to relax, I ran through my tried-and-true-tricks-to-help-Bobbe-sleep arsenal. First, I mentally walk myself through a meditation exercise I learned when I took a music therapy workshop in college. It's usually more effective when someone else is leading the exercise but I still try it. Essentially, you start from your toes and tell yourself to focus on relaxing your toes specifically. Next your ankles, calf muscles, knees, thighs and so on up your body all the way up to your forehead. It helps a little, but I tend to go through the process too quickly and it has never been as relaxing as when the instructor lead us eleven years ago.
During that "meditation," I also tend to sigh a lot. My friends make fun of me for this because I do it anytime I'm trying to relax, whether it's in the back seat during a road trip, or on the beach stretched out on a towel tanning. Something about taking deep breaths and slowing releasing the air forces me to slow down and only concentrate on my breathing, which helps to drown out the irritating loop in my head. Finally my last get-the-fuck-to-sleep trick is rocking myself. That sounds ridiculous actually, and is probably more accurately described as wiggling my butt in an effort to simulate being rocked. I'm on my side when I do this and generally keep it up until the effort of wiggling exhausts me and I fall asleep. I'm not going to overthink how needing to be rocked could be the topic of a couch session with a therapist and just breeze past it because all that matters is that I GET to sleep; not the crazy process I have to take to get there. Mission accomplished.
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