I Started To Feel Guilty.
Because I worked a standard 9-5 job on weekdays for the first time in my life, I was starting to feel a little bit like I belonged in the world. I loved my colleagues and I was proud of myself for working at such a prestigious institution. I did my absolute best to show up every day, in spite of my insane home life.
But I started to feel guilty showing up at work with a hangover. Especially since I was doing it every day.
I set my alarm for the latest possible time I could: 7:30 when I had to be there (20 minutes away) at 8:00. “Snooze” was a luxury I could not afford. I’d slept through too many temp jobs by hitting “snooze.”
Getting out of bed was excruciating. Some days I could only get up with enough time to brush my teeth, feed the cat, and throw on the same khakis I’d worn the day before. I did better earlier in the week, when I would manage to force myself into the shower, sometimes even washing my hair.
Then I’d drive to work with a two-liter bottle of Diet Coke between my legs, which makes it hard to shift gears in a VW bug. It’s even harder when chain-smoking out the window for the entire 20-minute drive through stop-and-go traffic.
It was well worth it. I wanted this job. I liked this job. Like with The Pennysaver, I felt like an integral part of the team, and I was proud of the work we did together. It was the internal motivation I needed to help me push forward.
But my head throbbed straight through till lunchtime. By then I was so sick, it was hard to choke down whatever I grabbed from the museum cafeteria in my allotted (paid!) lunch hour. (I got a whole HOUR for lunch!) I felt incredibly guilty doing sub-par work in the mornings, but it never occurred to me to get up any earlier, to eat breakfast, or to leave the bar before closing time on a weeknight.
I thought not doing hard drugs was enough to keep me going.
In fact, I felt extraordinarily proud of myself for getting the five or six hours of sleep I did, for staying off of acid and cocaine, for never going to the museum drunk or high. I prided myself on being the employee I believed I was, rather than the employee I actually was – and when my dreams collided with my reality, my delinquency shouted above the din.
I worked with an older woman who chose to take her lunch break after everyone else was finished eating. She would go into our department’s break room and turn off all the lights. Then she’d lie down on the couch and zonk out for half an hour, every day. I was amazed that this behavior was allowed – and that no one minded.
I thought it was odd and unprofessional. My parched throat, throbbing head and sub-par performance every single morning aside, I compared myself to the woman who napped at lunchtime and thought, Well, at least I’m not that bad. At least I don’t sleep in the break room.
I also thought she was wasting the most important part of the day by sleeping through it. Lunchtime was supposed to be fun! Also lunchtime meant drinking enough Diet Coke to categorically dismiss the day’s hangover and prepare for another night of drinking beer until I passed out.
Then I would get up and do it all over again.