Feb. 1st, 2007 09:22 am
Verschlaffene Rotzfabrik
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
muckefuckSomehow, I managed to forget that I'd reset my alarm last week in order to get up in time for my flight to Oregon. Until 5:35 this morning, that is. I tried to reset it on the fly for an extra hour of sleep, but something went wrong. I remember glancing over at the clock, seeing it was 6:38, and wondering why the radio wasn't playing. Then I looked again and saw that it read 8:38. Instead of bursting from bed in a panic, I asked myself how it was that I could still feel so damn tired even with an additional three hours of sleep. Then I dawdled, figuring I'd have to call in and tell them I'd be at least an hour late anyway.
But when I picked up my phone to call in, it read 7:54. WTF? Wait--yes, brilliant me had managed to reset the time, not the alarm. On the bright side, I was spared the ignonimy of having to call in and admit my mistake--but only if I hauled some serious ass. I compacted my morning routine into fifteen minutes, but I still needed to buy a monthly pass for the train. The problem with doing that at your local currency exchange: No one there is in any hurry. Normally, this isn't an issue at 8:15 a.m., but ausgerechnet heute, both tellers were busy when I came in with clients who wouldn't know a sense of urgency if it walked up and stabbed them in the chest.
Yet, despite it all, I still managed to walk into the office only minutes after my scheduled time. Of course, I was immediately confronted by a strong sense of "Why am I here?" My cold has reached what Nuphy and I call the "Rotzfabrik" or "snot-factory" stage, where you feel like the only reason you're ingesting so many fluids is to produce more mucus. And, whereas before my personal factory seemed Soviet-run, today the little shock-workers have ramped up production to East German levels of efficiency. Gute Produktionserfolge!
But when I picked up my phone to call in, it read 7:54. WTF? Wait--yes, brilliant me had managed to reset the time, not the alarm. On the bright side, I was spared the ignonimy of having to call in and admit my mistake--but only if I hauled some serious ass. I compacted my morning routine into fifteen minutes, but I still needed to buy a monthly pass for the train. The problem with doing that at your local currency exchange: No one there is in any hurry. Normally, this isn't an issue at 8:15 a.m., but ausgerechnet heute, both tellers were busy when I came in with clients who wouldn't know a sense of urgency if it walked up and stabbed them in the chest.
Yet, despite it all, I still managed to walk into the office only minutes after my scheduled time. Of course, I was immediately confronted by a strong sense of "Why am I here?" My cold has reached what Nuphy and I call the "Rotzfabrik" or "snot-factory" stage, where you feel like the only reason you're ingesting so many fluids is to produce more mucus. And, whereas before my personal factory seemed Soviet-run, today the little shock-workers have ramped up production to East German levels of efficiency. Gute Produktionserfolge!