I wake abruptly, realizing that it is full daylight outside.
I roll out of bed and walk across the apartment—the new arrangement of furniture means that the phone is about three yards away from the bed, and impossible to roll over and simply slap into silence.
It’s 7:55 AM.
I have seven minutes to get dressed. The closest clothes are streets and I throw those on. The uniform goes into my purse as does my phone, my cans (not those cans—headphones), and my iPod duo.
I’m ready in a minute and forty-five.
I’m half out the door when a niggling little sense goes, “Check your keychain.” I do that.
My bus pass clip is AWOL.
I start to ransack my apartment, undoing yesterday’s work immediately.
My alarm goes off. It’s three minutes until nine.
One more scour.
Another scouring when I don’t see it.
I panic. I call work. “Please let it be slow.”
The phone opens on the first ring. “Good morning—”
At first I think it is a voice mail. I freeze. Then I remember I need to be SPEAKING and ask what the deal was with my last lateness and pretty much beg for it to be slow, as if our deskman can make that happen.
…I luck out. It’s slow. In fact they were just about to text me.
I almost fall over in relief.
After this scare, I’m going to be putting myself in a rather rigid sleep schedule on days where I work. I don’t want to lose my job, and so I will now be putting myself to bed BEFORE 0130 on workdays—no exceptions. Phone goes off, statuses go DND, and I put my damn self the fuck to sleep. I’m not having this happen again.
If you need me I’ll be searching for my godsdamned KEYS. And probably eating toast. My nervous stomach has decided to kick itself into gear this morning.