Monday, April 18, 2005

On being God's Private Mystery

Saturday was a memorable date in FG history, and while I intended to post something profound, witty and moving to mark the date, circumstances had another idea and that post will have to wait until I get some more sleep and I reacquaint myself with a few resources that seem to be in short supply here in la Cabeza de la Frisbee. Namely, basic intelligence and articulation.

Having bought some more time for that project, let's revisit Saturday night in the real world of the Frisbee. To say that it had been a long week would be an understatement, but Friday rounded things out nicely with a number of spontaneous and impromptu connections with friends and a snacky, gabfest dinner with an old fling (btw, Serge, John agrees that it just ain't the same in these parts withoutcha...especially when we were deconstructing a couple of dishes we'd ordered; we both miss you like crazy, man.) All of this culminated in me skipping my daily nap *gasp*, throwing caution to the wind and reading until almost 4am. Not tired, but knowing that I needed sleep, I put the book aside and tried to sleep with mixed results. The details are unimportant, but in the end, I slept for a decent six hours and went about my day, somewhat nervously preparing for what was meant to be a very long and busy night at work.

To my disappointment, I started feeling ready for nappy-time about an hour and a half before I needed to be at work. I rallied and took some Vivarin to work with me. I buffered the night with a little Vivarin and nursed a Red Bull for good measure. Thankfully, we weren't slammed and the night went off without a hitch.

Until roughly midnight.

Somewhere between midnight and 12:30, I hit the wall. Heretofore known as The Wall. The Wall is solid, dense and disturbingly unforgiving. As a matter of fact, I have a sneaking suspicion that The Wall actually smacks back, if not being guilty of outright winding up for the pitch of one's ass being delivered on a plate. I'm sure that I don't need to state that The Wall kicked my sorry excuse for hind end to the not so proverbial curb.

It started with the inexplicable puddle of liquid on the floor under the bar. Not good, but workable. Then my register was off. Significantly. Impossibly significantly. Think Gross National Product numbers. Double that, you might be close. Shouldn't be a big deal, because it's so obviously incorrect instead of a shortage, but WTFF, man?? I swear I can never get the numbers right. Guh. Then. THEN, the milk crates that I store my beautiful and bountiful bottles of booze are gone.

Now, before I continue, note that the span of time between the beginning of the above paragraph and the end of it is roughly 30 minutes as I was still making drinks for random customers and, ostensibly, using these moments to punctuate my slow descent into Hell. Arrival in Hell came shortly thereafter and without the use of any landing gear to speak of.

Returning to the till in hopes of finding that the register report had inexplicably readjusted and rewritten itself, I was disappointed to find that nothing had changed and at that point, I noticed that I didn't have any bags for the deposit as it hit me that I was just fucking tired. I was past tired. And I was tired of being tired. My body hurt. I was tired of that as well. I couldn't think straight. Fucking tired. Simple addition and subtraction principles eluded me and English was beginning to resemble a second, very VERY foreign language in form and function. In response to this, my brain performed what it has apparently deemed as the appropriate plan of action and I started to cry. (Fuck this fucking tired shit, I'm going home.)


This, clearly, would be the moment that my boss type person would choose to walk through and want to check in on things. It took him a minute to register that I was in tears as I avoided looking at him. Once he noticed, he asked me what was wrong. A reasonable and logical question to ask, but of course, it only upset me more because while my pre-reptilian brain was screaming "I just need to sleeeeeep! Can't I please take a nap and do this later?" My Frisbee mouth said, "Well the till is off by like 40 billion, there's a puddle on the floor, but I don't piddle in public and suh-suh-suh-someone took my milk cuh-cuh-crates. Oh, and I'm outta bags too-oo."

To add insult to complete injury, I have and always have had a horrible habit of involuntary hyperventilation when I get upset enough to cry. I think that it was funny in a really pathetic way when I was 5, but it persists to this day. I am 35. Closer now to middle age than to elementary school. Standing behind a bar at 1:30, crying and hiccupping about puddles, crates and banks does not inspire respect or admiration in any manner. Pique one's trainwreck fascination? Absolutely. Instill confidence? Not so much.

He was expert in performing the proper calming techniques, but something in me had already leapt over the emotional Niagra Falls and there was no coming back. Worst of all, I could see his 'who replaced my bartender with a raving lunatic?' expression and from deep inside I was yelling, 'I know, huh? When you find out, send me the info and details - I'll bring her back, I promise!'

Le sigh.

Nothing left to do but become the new President of the HairClub for Men. Good times. That, at least, would make sense.

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