It’s familiar, routine.
Awake before everyone else in the house, before most everyone in your neighborhood. You smell it in the air, taste it. It urges you, ignites your desire to grab the keys and go. Your muscles are stiff from an entire weekend of having not moved much except to cycle through the list of “honey-do”s. You abhor that list, not just because they are things you do with or without the list, but because your version of the list includes the one thing that you need most. But like a child who is told “you can’t have your dessert unless you finish your meal” you are trapped in the domestic limbo of laundry, cooking, cleaning, walking the dog you didn’t want in the first place, grocery shopping, more laundry, entertaining the in-laws, staring at online job-applications because of course you’re drastically underemployed and underpaid, resenting the process of online job applications because of course you don’t even work for these companies yet and you’re already being undervalued and treated like a peon, paying bills on credit, still more laundry, yet more cleaning, and on to infinitum, everything but the one thing you have made explicitly clear that you need solo time for. But, as usual, your needs have been entirely subjugated and swept under the rug of “doing the right thing, placing others first.” Now it’s Monday. In three hours you will once again be bent over a desk and sodomized for nine hours straight by Uncle Sam and Uncle Wall Street. But it doesn’t have to be so bad if only you could get in an hour or so at your favorite break. It’s not the best spot and you’re sometimes chided by others for preferring it, but whether it’s got ankle-biters or those rare peaks that will cut your head off, you always find it to be a challenge. And lets face it, there’s nothing more realigning, more centering, more wholesomely chaotic than sitting alone on your best heavily dinged, delaminated board while watching a pod of three dark shadows pass directly under you and quietly resurface only a few meters away just as a brown pelican glides silently past you riding a pocket of air in front of an incoming wave.
It won’t happen, again, this morning. It’s now a quarter to the hour. Fortunately your commute is only a few minutes, but have yet to shower, eat, and do all the other petty things we are conditioned to do according to the bourgeoisie schedule. “And miles to go before I sleep” repeats endlessly in your head.
You step over your board bag just as you fasten your name badge to your breast pocket. You quickly glance in the mirror to make sure your mask is on properly, then grab your keys, step out the door and arch your back to accept the heavy foot of Moloch.