The 8 – 10 Time Period

By Beth Winze

A tad bit of a prelude:

I hate complaining about things because its negative and does not add any quality to my blogging, but I do have one massive pet peeve, Achilles Heel, kryptonite, undoing (pick your own verbiage) that will drive me to insanity quicker than anything else.  So in my thinking, if I make it fun and comedic, is it really complaining?_________________________________________________________________

The eight to ten o’clock hours are always the worse.  They’re insignificant on a clock, if you ask me.  Filler hours.  Numbers on a rotating wand letting you know you have entered a time trap.  They carry different implication in the morning and in the night, but both still remain highly unnecessary.

Eight in the morning means I’ve clocked in already and have taken my first swig (out of dozens) of coffee.  I sit at my desk, not fully awake, yet not sleepy enough to doze off – the horrible medium of glazed over in which your eyes represent those of a Krispy Kreme donut.  My head’s still thick from last night’s dreams and my body moves sluggishly waiting for the coffee to do its job.  When a noise is made, it sounds louder than normal and I keep my eyes squinted against the off white glare of office fluorescents.  My eyes can’t focus on the screen full of millions of pixels.  I cross them and uncross them in an attempt to sharpen my vision.  I’m waiting for nine. 

Nine rolls through on its own timing, making it feel like it’s been more than an hour since I’ve started and I’m already anxiously looking forward to five in the evening.  The first cup of coffee has sludge piled in the bottom and I try to mix it with the tiny amount gathered at the bottom.  It’s cold.  Great.  While I am more alert, I am still too lazy to go fill it back up.  I look at my watch more times than I should, daring time to move faster.  But nine keeps steady…..click, click, click, mocking me with every twitch of a second it moves.  I wait until nine thirty to fill my cup again, spacing my activities out so that I feel like time is passing quicker than it is in reality.  Come on ten.

Finally, ten rolls around and time picks up its dragging skirts and steps a little more lively – as if it has taken two hours for a steam powered train to get enough chug behind it to see results.  The coffee has run its course and the second cup is not far behind moving my body into hyper drive.  I’m alert and productive and the overhead lighting is less annoying now.  I see a little hope in the knowledge that I’m almost through the hardest part of the morning.  Eleven, come to Mama. 

Eight in the evening is correspondingly ill-fated, but only on the weekdays.  Eight means that dinner is over and the darkness outside is blanketing the grass too quickly, tucking the world in for the night.  Now the mosquitos are out.  Even though there is still time to accomplish things, I feel like Time is coming for me and in only an hour or so, I will be placed in its handcuffs.  Why at the opposite end of the day does eight pass by ridiculously fast?  Nine, stay away. 

Nine rolls in like a speeding freight train threatening me with the approaching call to slumber that comes earlier than I would like.  Nine thirty means I start my monotonous routine of showering, brushing, flossing, picking out clothes and setting out coffee for the next morning.  Nine means I have to start thinking about the next day and the next set of eight and nine’s that won’t pass by as quickly as their evening sister does.  Sigh.  There’s no stopping Ten. 

Ten rides Nine like a tailgater on the highway, pushing it along at a clipped pace that finds me lying in bed staring at a dark ceiling.  I’ve set my alarms for six in the morning, but it’s not the early wake up I dread, but rather the imposing eight o’clock hour that looms on the two hour horizon from six.  I roll over and turn on Netflix for a while, hoping and praying that my show will take forever to finish before I have to turn it off and attempt sleep.  But the forty-five minute show rolls credits and as I close my eyes, the awareness of the following eight to ten o’clock hours chases me into my nightmares.

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