Wednesday

I can’t remember the last time that I did something that really mattered.
I can’t remember the last time that I did something.
I can’t remember the last time.
I can’t remember.
I can’t.

8:48 a.m. is the threshold time. The alarm has been ringing, at 5-minute regular intervals, for quite some time now. All that does not matter any more. This is the absolute latest that I have to get out of bed. I would have the luxury of not having to do six tasks at the same time if I had responded to any one the prior alarm rings. Who needs such luxuries? Every moment of being able to actually avoid starting the day seems precious in itself.

9:34 a.m. I push the heavy frosted glass door open and get sucked into a maze of non-ergonomic furniture, demanding clients, crashing computers, harsh lighting, over sweetened weak tea, faux coffee, sixty three phone calls that offer me loans- insurance- free –credit- cards- broadband –Internet- connections-club-memberships and much more, moments of
boredom,
concentration,
thinking,
forgetting,
remembering,
working,
feigning,
stalling,
trying,
succeeding,
failing,
occasional bursts of intense frustration and
rare moments of satisfaction.

7:00 p.m. I am chilled to the bone from the excessive air-conditioning and bleary eyed from having stared at a computer monitor unblinkingly. For most of nine and a half hours. And some more of the vital life force that keeps me alive has been inexorably squeezed out. At the current rate of squeeze out, I wonder how long before it is all squeezed. It is too late in the day for advanced mathematics.

8: 53 p.m. Still, a little more than three hours of my “own” time left. I lie comfortably numb in front of the television-VH1 in very low volume- and revel in the freedom to any absolute thing. Except that I seem to have lost the power to move my limbs. Out the corner of my eye (I roll my eyeballs, it is too much work to turn my head) I can see a stack of books.
The corrections-Jonathan Franzen
Gilead –Marilynne Robinson
Argumentative Indian-Amartya Sen
Aunt Julia and the scriptwriter-Maria Vargas Llosa
The global Soul-Pico Iyer
They all look so inviting. I try to move my aching limbs to reach to one. I try really hard.

8:55 p.m. I don’t think I can reach the books.

8: 57 p.m. Three minutes to Grey’s anatomy. Story of a group of surgical interns-including an ex-underwear model as a current struggling intern and we get to see the back story visually-working gazillion hour shifts, yet, somehow looking like highly paid TV stars working on their acceptance speech for the Emmy award for best ensemble cast in a drama series. Who can watch something so cheesy?

8:59 p.m. The remote is practically in my hand. Switching from channel 72 to channel 14 seems within the realm of possibility for aching limbs.

9:04 p.m. The horrible betrayal of having traded Amartya Sen for Ellen Pompeo and Patrick Dempsey-not cute as is being widely claimed- is sending waves of guilt raging through my entire body.

9:12 p.m. It may be cheesy. But, this soundtrack is really good stuff. I must hunt this title track on the net tomorrow. Did Ellen Pompeo get an Emmy for this?

11:48 p.m. God, these Friends reruns are still so funny.

12:10 a.m. I can't remember the last time that I did something that really mattered.