The fifty-hour day
December 28, 2001 ~ 3:03 a.m.
BOSTON, MA�I have not slept, at least not in any deep, refreshing or significant way, for forty-nine hours. Not even during midterms or the final exam crush in college did I sustain a sleep drought as long as this. I have just broken my personal record of 32 straight hours, set at college twelve years ago, by a long shot.
On the day after Christmas (Wednesday), I woke up for my run at 6 a.m. Our flight to Boston was the next day (Thursday), and so I stayed up to pack, clean the apartment and watch a few favorite TV shows. At any moment, getting some sleep before work did cross my mind, but my packing took me longer than expected, and by the time I was finished, my wife was hankering for a bite to eat. We walked half-a-mile to the pub and had our supper. I had my second wind by then and was feeling good. Back at home, the wife and I watched some sitcoms on TV and then I played some PlayStation games. Then, I went into work.
Taking an early break time, on account of my falling asleep at the computer (commercials that should have taken me only 30 seconds to classify were instead taking me several minutes), I threw myself on some chairs in the conference room and dozed for an hour. But I did not sleep. I woke up feeling worse than ever and reported back to work. Luckily, my third wind kicked in and I worked the last four hours feeling blissfully awake and alert.
It was now daybreak on Thursday and I arrived home with just enough time to check that I had absolutely everything I needed for the trip. The wife and I grabbed our luggage, locked the doors and headed into London. I changed my entire wages�received at work just that very morning�into traveler�s checks and joined the wife for a coffee. Then we hopped the London subway to the airport. I fell into a stupefied doze on the subway train throughout the entire half-hour journey from central London to Heathrow.
There�s a lot of hype out there about how dead airports are, and about how scared and unwilling people are to fly at this moment in history. Don�t believe a word of it. We stood in line at check-in for more than an hour. As if that wasn�t enough, we also stood for half-an-hour at the security checkpoint. It seemed as if everybody and their proverbial brother was flying on this day. By now, I was either still running off fumes from my third wind or beginning my fourth wind. However, I was entertaining myself with a hand-held computer game that the wife got me for Christmas called �Space Invaders,� so I was okay. At least, we boarded the plane at the expected time, but because some idiot had boarded the wrong plane (or some idiot had allowed him to board the wrong plane), our flight was delayed by nearly an hour as a result of a massive security investigation.
Once we were deemed fit and ready enough to finally begin our trans-Atlantic journey, I sat back in my seat and fell into yet another uncomfortable doze, interrupted by the serving of drinks and dinner. (I must say, plane food has gotten better.) I licked my chops with satisfaction and sat back to watch The Score on the video-screen on the back of the seat in front of me. I did manage some more sleep on the plane, but only in the very loosest sense of the word. It was not true sleep�it was fitful, anxious �rest.�
We arrived in Boston at 5 p.m. East Coast Time, but it was 10 p.m. in London�and according to my body. But, after collecting our luggage, sweet-talking our way through customs, arranging our transport to my parents� house in the �burbs, saying hello to the folks, sharing stories of my life for the past five months with them, and unpacking, I would guess my fifth wind had kicked in.
Now I am surfing the 'net, on my folks� computer. I did nearly fall asleep at one point while writing this, but then some truly kick-butt jazz came on the radio, refreshed me and now I�ve got my sixth wind. I think it�s time to post this entry and go for a run. It is now 3 in the morning in Boston, but it�s 8 a.m. on Friday according to Londoners and my system.
I have just been up fifty straight hours. I am one tired guy�but you�d never guess so.
� M.E.M.
|
[Sign My Guestbook]
[View My Guestbook]
|
Copyright � 2001-2007 by M.E. Manning. All material is written by me, unless explicitly stated otherwise by use of footnotes or bylines. Do not copy or redistribute without my permission.
AMERICA FOR TRUE AMERICANS!