Into the Graveyard

Relax, folks, this post has nothing to do with death at all.

I'm staring a string of six night shifts in the face. Ugly face, let me tell you.

I used to work nights almost exclusively. I've done it for three separate variety store chains as well as McDonald's. We're talking about five years or so here, and you can take those five years and subtract them from my expected lifespan. For those years I never really got fully to sleep and I never really came fully awake. I existed--hard to say lived--in the half-world, suppressing jaw-cracking yawns, wondering how it was I could rise from bed every evening more tired than I was when I fell into it every morning. (7-Eleven was notorious for occasionally throwing a 7am-3pm or 3pm-11pm shift in amongst all the overnighters, which depleted me further. It was something akin to perpetual jet lag.)

I'm a lark by nature, usually up by six a.m. at the latest whether I need to be or not. That said, I don't mind the night shifts in and of themselves: I actually rather enjoy them, especially now that I'm well away from the endless parade of drunken louts that stained my nights twenty years ago. Much more work can be accomplished, partly because there are no customers, partly because comfortable clothes can be worn and tunes can be cranked.) I remember rocking out to Winger, of all things, at Mickey Dees in the early nineties...now I have a radio station in my pocket, eclectic as hell and endlessly energizing if I want it to be.

No, the night shifts are just fine. The problem is sleeping between them. The last time I pulled this stunt, I barely slept at all for damn near nine revolutions of the clock. I'd say no more than three or four hours of sleep in every twenty four hour period, and none of it restful or restorative. I fell violently ill and missed the last of my scheduled night shifts altogether.

You can tell me to keep the room dark and quiet and cool, and I can do all that. Our bedroom curtains are a thick, deep and lustrous green and they block out sunlight very well. Aside from marauding telemarketers (the do-not-call list in Canada is a deeply unfunny joke), the house is fairly quiet during the day. I can play Georgia-ball in the morning long enough to tucker out the Peach for the day (the Tux is a sleepy rug about twenty seven hours a day anyway). And I have A/C in the bedroom in case summer hasn't quite finished tormenting me.

None of that does a damn thing to shut that bitch Circadia up. She cheeps and chirps away from sunup to sundown, telling the world it's time to be awake, damnit, up and at 'em, get your ass out of bed! After awhile you get to romanticizing comas and thinking about clocking yourself in the noggin with a frying pan.

My mother-in-law very kindly gave me some fortifications against Circadia's incessant chittering and my wife is prepared to add her own should the need arise. I certainly don't need a repeat of that last zombified week.

I know I just got finished saying the Breadbin is back open for business--but it will likely be shuttered for the next week or so.