What a surprise! I woke up not ten minutes ago [back at four forty-five a.m., but no internet until now] to a rushing heartbeat and the unmistakable wobbly sensation of being too far up a coniferous tree. Plus the pegs feel like twin Jul logs of lactic acid, smoldering away for a third party to appreciate.
I shed the pajamas, pulled on shorts, and socks, and the old pair of trainers, and went out for a quick trip to the ab unit, feeling bewildered. What kind of switcheroo was this, G. Samsa of Secret City? What happened to the chipper fellow I’d gone to sleep as, who’d dined on beet salad, three cups of tea, a slice of pizza, and a manageable scoop of coffee ice cream?
I’d been ready, I’d been motivated. I’d read about Jean C installing a new kitchen sink. Was all that preparation just a blithe, fantastical dream? Is this sad state my reality? A drab paneled cube of lodging space furnished with empty beds and dusty footlockers, invisibly striated like a USA Today weather map by the crisp, dry and insufficient heat from the wall unit? A googly-eyed trio of stuffed animals, all repeating the same story when asked about my motivation—ya se fue, boss, it done left.