A Day In The Life Of - Austin Edition

Tonight I had nothing to actively blog about. I came home and was content with the life I have in such a short time built for myself. I tried to remember the feelings of angst and stagnation that I had felt with life that caused me to flee Austin.

Unable to do so, I remembered I had written my friend an email an email back in November entitled, "A Day In The Life Of...". One Yahoo mail search later, I found it. Rereading it, I was agog to realize how different I feel tonight. Warm and satisfied with my choice in life, I am off to bed, but felt the need to show you how far I have come.

A Day In The Life Of...

November 30, 2009

7:17a.m. Consciousness slowly breaks over me. The pale blue light filtering in through the blinds can be seen through my lids. The alarm has not gone off yet, so I attempt to stave off the inevitable realization that I will have to leave my down cocoon. I can hear the dog’s soft snore near my ear and listen to the rhythmic rasp while I float back sleep. Before slumber is achieved, the jarring cry of the alarm snaps me back to reality. The light’s velvety quality was an ephemeral pleasure that has now slipped into a steely grey. Resigned to my fate, I roll over and luxuriously stretch; my quadriceps scream in protest after last night’s run. Pushing back the covers, the heat escapes, and my day starts.

7:37 a.m. Taking a bath brings such enjoyment. My feet are cold from the linoleum floor and they tingle with a million tiny pinpoints as I step into the enveloping heat. I stand ankle deep for a moment, waiting to acclimate so that I can slowly submerge my entire body. The heat suffuses over me and I lay in the warm embrace. Today it was harder to prod myself to action then most mornings. The actions are so rote that I can tune out and allow my mind to try to recover the shreds of last night’s dream. Unable to do so, I am out of the tub, and the now tepid water sheets off of me.

8:25 a.m. Dressed, fed, and freshly coifed, I am now preparing to leave for the day of work before me. I have to shut the door on the mournful look the dog gives me no matter if I am leaving him for the day or going as far as the end of the driveway. The cutting morning air tugs cruelly at my membrane thin scrubs and confirms my choice to drive my car the three blocks to work. I navigate the same route, park my car in the same spot, and walk the same route into the building. The fact I cannot actively recall a thing from puppy dog eyes to the downward swipe of my time clock may be indicative of a forming rut. I fear the grass is growing beneath my feet.

10:12 a.m. Well into the routine, and as I sit in the artificial cooled and dehumidified air, I press the plastic cup of the phone receiver closer to my ear, straining to hear a response to my question. My patient's need for privacy in her active attempt to achieve pregnancy has her whispering in a bathroom stall. Her voice reverberates off the industrial tile, to the brushed stainless-steal sink, off the three metal walls she sits behind and back into my ear. I listen, but I do not need to be fully engaged to pick up the reason she is calling . I can mentally see her perched on the commode in her tailored skirt and matching blazer; only her two and a half-inch heels visible below the truncated door. I catch a key word and just wait for the pause so I can provide her with the scripted answer.

12:00 p.m. The morning has slipped away, and as the very moment the phones click off for lunch, I am mentally out the door before I am physically. Stepping outside, the sun is now directly above me and giving a valiant effort to warm me but its heat is still being whipped away by winter's gusty blows. Back at the house, a wet nose greets me at the door. I warm a fillet of frozen fish in the oven and put on a pot of sushi rice, and sit down to watch inane daytime television while my food cooks. Despite the lacking choices in television, I adore the oasis of home mid-day. I do not want to move from desk to break room and have the same conversations to the same people just doing a different task.

1:15 p.m. After finishing lunch, my full stomach commandeers the blood my brain needs to stay alert and sluggishly I return to the office. Though my day is equally divided, the afternoons always seem to yawn out impossibly long. I return to my assigned space along a narrow counter that does not even have the dignity of being called a desk. I await the onslaught to commence.

3:55 I am in clinic with a patient who is scared and in desperate need of guidance. She fears the bright red blood she sees in the bathroom marks the demise of her hopes. For the first time all day, I am engaged. Presented with a problem that is outside my scripted responses, I am required to use high brain function and am reveling in it. These shining moments are havens for my active mind, and are the tiny spots that I look forward to every day. Excited by the opportunity to make a difference, my pace subconsciously quickens as does my pulse. Soon I am bidding her a good-bye as she leaves with reassurance, relief painted on her face, and fulfillment floods into me.

5:39 The close of business has finally come, and I am driving home. Rounding only one of two corners I need to complete my journey home, I am pleasantly caught unawares and awed by the fall foliage. Trees that normally serve as the backdrop to my neighborhood have caught the evening sun and are ablaze with color. Each leaf is undulating but each is doing so to its own rhythm and pace; like each is floating on a the surface of a different wave. The combination of the ruddy hues and the individually distinct movement makes the tree look like I had just missed someone igniting it in its entirety. The moment is quick and now gone as the car's forward motion changes my perspective. Moments later I am home, but am still trying to recreate the exact shade of orange in my mind's eye.

6:17 Tonight I have a lull before I have to be at my night's prescribed event, and am delighted by the play in my schedule. The contemplation of what to do with my surplus time is almost as exciting as actually getting to enjoying it. In the end, I settle upon my favorite pastime, reading. Joining my current tome upstairs, I relish in the anticipation of rejoining the tale. I am soon immersed between the book's two covers, and time slips away unnoticed.

8:00 Family Home Evening begins with the mundane announcements and introductions we repeat every week. Though soon enough the true reason we have all gathered in an apartment to small to comfortably seat all present begins. The lesson's focuses is on being a member missionary with Alma and Amulek as the examples. The usage of my favorite, Amulek, makes the lesson especially poignant and I am enrapt during the entire lesson. The Spirit poured into me, awakening my spiritual half. Basking in the warm radiance, I now feel as if the world around me has been permeated with a vibrancy that was missing from the rest of my day. Sluffing off the drudgery, I could feel the my true self unfurl from its dormant state. Enlivened and whole from the lesson, FHE finally comes to a close and I head off to the gym.

10:45 I set about to record my day and in the process, miss the traditional implements of letter writing. A veteran letter writer of the pen and paper variety, I miss the bite the nib makes into the creamy paper as my familiar letters fill the page. There is something to be said for a handwritten letter. Individualized and personalized, it is a small work created just for you. Mechanically produced prose carries the same gist, but lacks the heart of an inked letter. Despite the cold format of the electronic offers, I attempt to set my mere words to the task of describing something so rich and complex as a day. Knowing they will fall short, I take the opportunity to spread my flowery wings and make my best attempt to make two dimensional words rich enough to express my three dimensional world.

12:19 Having reread my words with a critical eye, I am ready to send them out to you. The time is far spent, and must retire to prepare to repeat the same tomorrow with only slight substitutions. The drudgery yawns out before me. The fact I can see no end to the banality puts such an oppressiveness in my chest, that it makes it hard to force myself to do it every morning. The knowledge that if I skip today, the same will be waiting for me the day after breeds a depression that I know not how to get out of. Downcast by my own realization, I now will retire. As always, I hope my words find you well.