The aircar rocketed them at speeds in excess of R17 through the steel tunnels that led out on to the appalling surface of the planet which was now in the grip of yet another drear morning twilight. Ghastly gray light congealed on the land.
R is a velocity measure, defined as a reasonable speed of travel that is consistent with health, mental well-being and not being more than, say, five minutes late. It is therefore clearly an almost infinitely variable figure according to circumstances, since the first two factors vary not only with speed taken as an absolute, but also with awareness of the third factor. Unless handled with tranquility this equation can result in considerable stress, ulcers and even death.
R17 is not a fixed velocity, but it is clearly far too fast.
You know, my Wednesdays seem to move at about R17 from the time I get up until the time I put my head back on the pillow 18 or 19 hours later. I run from work to teaching to office hours to teaching again to home. At the moment, I'm experiencing my only period of downtime. My office hour, during which I usually try to crank out a blog post.
As I've said before, these blog posts ground me. They allow me to reflect and maybe order my day's experiences a little. Tonight is the eve before my son's eleventh birthday. That amazes me. I won't be seeing him until late, if he isn't already in bed by the time I get home from teaching. Wednesdays make me miss my son.
I'm getting used to seeing my daughter for only brief moments during the day. Tuesdays and Thursdays, she comes to the hospital where I work, and I buy her lunch in the cafeteria. I think of it as her college meal dining plan. It's difficult not seeing her more during the week, but I know that I have to step back and let her figure things out. If she needs something, she will talk to me. But I miss my daughter on Wednesdays, too.
I'm not about to turn all maudlin here. This isn't going to be one of those posts where I bemoan my kids growing up and spreading their proverbial wings. No. It's just about Wednesdays.
I have never liked Wednesdays all that much. All the work of the first part of the week seems to pile up on this day, and time slows down dramatically, as if I'm in some artsy foreign film shot in black-and-white. At the moment, I am about to face another three hours in the classroom. That time, depending on my students, will either fly by, or I will find myself in the equivalent of a Ken Burns 16-hour documentary on the state of the American higher education system. The good thing is that my evening students this semester are highly engaged, so I'm pretty sure I'll enjoy myself.
Tonight, if everything goes according to plan, my daughter and I will watch American Horror Story: 1984 when I get home. If everything goes according to plan. It's sort of an autumn tradition my daughter and I have been sharing for many years. Last week, however, she forgot that it was on and spent the night at her boyfriend's house. We had to reschedule our AHS bonding time to Saturday night.
I don't mind being this busy. I'm used to it. With all the other stuff that's going on in my life, however, I often find myself pretty exhausted by 5 p.m. most days. It takes me a while to recharge for any evening events/activities. And, when I say "pretty exhausted," I mean falling over sleepy. I'm chalking up these bouts of extreme tiredness to getting older. Perhaps only getting four or five hours of sleep a night, as well. Sometimes, your body lets you know when it's had enough.
I need to head down to teach my class now. Then, home for some American Horror Story before I collapse into bed. It will be a good ending to a long day.
And Saint Marty still isn't a fan of Wednesdays.
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