My Exercise In Futility

It’s no wonder why I don’t sleep well. I honestly feel like I’m never doing enough. I could be learning more about Microsoft Exchange or about Domino 8; I could be working on one of my papers for school; I could be putting together the slides that I will use for the training I am providing one of my customers next week; I could be learning about SAN devices, HBAs and other types of hardware; I want to learn to write applications or scripts that could be useful in the work that I do.

Reading that list, one might think I went into a little bit of overkill to make my point. The problem is that this was only part of the list. I didn’t have to hesitate at all to express just some of the many things I feel like I am not accomplishing but should be working on. Does everyone feel like this? It’s not as if I am squandering my time away. I spread the 20 hours I am awake across several different tasks each day. Sometimes I don’t leave any time just to relax.

The Ambien CR is gone, too. I’ve been out of Ambien for almost four weeks now. Normally, I would have the prescription refilled and think nothing of it. In Paris, I’ve been reluctant to find a doctor and get a new prescription; I haven’t called my own doctor because I don’t know how he would get a prescription to me while I’m in Paris. Plus, I wanted to see if I could sleep without it now. I can’t. What does this matter you might ask? When I had the Ambien, I would look at the clock each night and decide that I had done enough for the day and I would take my sleeping pill. Within 30 minutes I would be asleep, and I would stay asleep. It was forced downtime.

Now, it’s quite literally 20 hour days with 4 hours of restless, broken sleep between them. My mind races. In the distant past, I would watch a familiar movie as I fell asleep. It was enough to keep my mind from wandering to new ideas or problems, but the movie was familiar enough that I wouldn’t have to pay attention – I could fall asleep. That trick doesn’t work in Paris. French TV forces me to pay attention. I find myself either trying to translate or determine the story line through body language and visual indicators. I have to pay attention – I don’t fall asleep.

However, 4 weeks without the Ambien and my dreams have returned. I’ve had some doozies since they’ve come back. Monday night, Britney Spears gave me a private concert with a surprise appearance by Madonna who, by the way, came out to dance around my seat. I had her undivided attention being the only audience member in a venue in comparable size to Madison Square Garden. It was the best concert ever. And they were both singing songs I had never heard. I should have wrote the lyrics down when I woke up. They were really good songs.

Wednesday night, I had the perfect story line for a box office hit playing out in my head. The dream was of me literally writing a sensational, action packed thriller and having it play out in live action as I wrote it down in the dream. Of course, when I awoke, I could only remember what the generic idea of the dream was, forgetting the entire story line I am certain would have made me millions in Hollywood.

My work here in Paris is almost complete. I have been praised for my great accomplishments and ability to bring a difficult project to closure. While working in Paris, I’ve had close to zero living expenses; EMC is paying for almost everything. I have been reducing my unsecured debt by leaps and bounds each pay period. I am doing so well in school that my average for this class is 97%. My point is, I should be feeling extremely accomplished and relaxed right now. Then why do I feel exactly the opposite? Why am I more stressed than I’ve been since arriving in Paris? Why do I feel like I’m not doing or learning enough? Why do I feel like I’m not paying the bills fast enough?

It’s never enough…

I have been trying to deny how stressed out I am, but the signs are all there. First, there’s the insomnia. Ambien CR is still helping me get to sleep, but the hours of consecutive sleep continues to shrink.

Then there’s the forgetfullness. I generally feel that I have a terriffic memory – except when I feel stressed. When I get like this, I start mixing up dates or forgetting numbers that have otherwise been engrained in my brain for years. I made it halfway up the west side today on the way to my therapy appointment before I realized my appointment wasn’t until tomorrow.

And the final symptom is usually a heightened state of OCD. I start to organize everything – my CD’s are in order by artist, my DVD’s by movie title, and everything on my desk currently lines up with something else on the desk.

All the signs are there – I still don’t want to admit to it, though. In a last ditch attempt of denial – I mixed all the CD’s and DVD’s back up, messed up my desk and started relying more on the calendar feature of my iPhone.

Problem is, I still can’t sleep…

I have wrote about a few of my pet peeves in the past, I’m sure. I’m not one to keep my trap shut. But I wasn’t feeling well today. As we can all attest, things never seem to go our way when we are sick or don’t quite feel right. It’s as if Murphy also wrote a rule of General Health – that which can go wrong will, and that which can go wrong while you are sick will not only go wrong, but dance on the last nerve of mental stability you have left in your weakened state.

Being the Type A personality that I am, I don’t deal with being sick well. I still have shit to do, and being sick takes up too much time. Today, while trying to get from point A to point B and having to deal with the idiots inbetween, I feel that my list of pet peeves either got longer today, or I was just more aware of the ones I already had. For instance:

• Why do people engage in phone conversations while they are in the restroom? On the list of Taboo Places for Cell Phone Use, this one should be at the top of everyone’s list. Never mind the fact that you are either standing with your cock out at a urinal or squatting on a toilet with your pants down, aren’t you aware of the other bodily noises that are going on around you? All the grunting, squirting, and splashing noises should clearly tip off whomever you are on the phone with that you just took their call in the bathroom. And even if you, the call taker, are not embarrassed by your surroundings, could you possibly practice a little electronic restraint for the rest of us for just five more minutes until you exit the restroom?

• Why do people ‘hold’ the elevator door as if it were an actual door that swings open and closed for other people that are right behind them? It’s 2008 folks! The door works on a sensor. It’s better for you to actually walk through the threshold, thereby guaranteeing that you have tripped the sensor that keeps the doors open vice placing your hand over a spot on the threshold hoping it might be blocking the sensor. Regardless, as rude as New York City may be perceived, I have never seen such an eager elevator as to slam shut on a patron that had advanced into the threshold of an elevator door.

• Why is it that whenever one is in a hurry in New York City, they somehow end up behind somebody that has managed to monopolize the entire sidewalk? For some reason or another you are unable to pass to the left – maybe it’s because there is oncoming pedestrian traffic on that side, or that half of the sidewalk is taped off. So you figure you should be able to pass to the right, correct? Just as you go to make your move, the little fucker starts to drift – like a drunk driver, swaying from left to right, blocking any chances you have to overpass. Bastards. Move for fuck’s sake!

• There are a few regions of your body that should not be scratched in public, this is something we are taught as small children. But, occasionally, the urge does arise, and it’s necessary to scratch one of those unmentionable spots. Usually, this is done quickly and hopefully discreetly as to not alert onlookers. So why is it when you’re sick and carrying heavy objects that require both your hands to do so that your mind decides to fuck with you and make the crack of your ass itch, or that spot right at the top of your nose itch. Funnier yet is that it usually is the ass crack first, and then the tip of your nose. Now you either have to stop or become a one man juggling act, somehow balancing those heavy objects in just one sick arm while you now draw attention to the fact that you are scratching your ass and your nose. Or, did everyone just see you scratch your ass crack and then sniff it? Another one of Murphy’s cruel, cruel mind fucks.

• Why is it, after all of these pet peeves have picked away at you, and when you think you are finally done for the day, that one person you hesitate to answer the phone for because you cannot predict which side of the bipolar coin came up today feels that it is the perfect time to call, and call, and call until you pick up. What’s worse is that Murphy’s Law of General Health is still in effect and it’s always the bad bipolar side of Two Face that we’re dealing with today. Fuck you, Murphy!

• Finally, why is it that I can be surrounded by a group of people that are not wearing headsets, not singing along with their iPods, and not walking as if they were just about to break into a sprint, yet the old, hunched-back beggar on the street, with his frail little features and his walker, picks me out of the crowd to stop and tell his sad story to. In New York City, remember that the sad story always ends with, “And I only need $10 to get to my destination…” It took him forever to tell me of his cancer, how he just got out of chemo, etc. As run down as I was, I actually just wanted the little fucker to get through his 2 minute story and get to the part where he actually asked for the money.  In my weakened state, I of course played the good little sucker and pulled $6 from my wallet and gave it to the old man with the walker who now had tears streaming down his face because I opened my wallet for him. Get in the fucking cab already and make sure you use the money for cab fare and nothing else!

Hell, who knows. Maybe the guy I gave the money to actually got in a cab. Maybe, through some sort of Murphy’s Trickle Down Effect, I saved someone else by giving that man cab fare. In a cab, he could no longer be the pedestrian in the street that couldn’t be passed. Who knows?

Is this day over yet, or will I face even more pet peeves before I hit the sack?