I’ve lived my entire life in the midwest.
(There’s a minor exception in that I lived ten or eleven months total in the UK, some in 1998 and some in 2000-2001.) I don’t think much about time zones as a result. And so on the occasions when I have to do something coordinated with people in other time zones, I often forget about the time difference. More of these coordinated things have happened since 2020 with the increase in zoom-based meetings during the pandemic. Previously I might be on the phone with someone in another time zone and if I got the time wrong, they’d just call me at the right time and we’d go from there. But now there’s an appointment to show up to, a meeting. I got one wrong again yesterday. I was bang on time, 5pm, but it was 5pm eastern, so I was an hour late. Mortifying.Being something of a hypochondriac, whenever I make a mistake like this I wonder, oh is this a sign of something deeper wrong? Will I end up like my grandma, fading out from dementia and alzheimer’s? Long covid worries amplify that. It doesn’t help that I’m usually tired from work! I worry a while then forget again, shift hazily onto whatever else looms out of the fog.
Well that’s a start, now what? What else did I do yesterday? Anything? The 6yo took another bath to soak her hurt foot, I looked at it, it looks as bad as a non-worrying wound can look. It’s a bad owie and she’s on track to be fine. She keeps not standing on it and standing with her hurt foot toe-pointed like a ballerina. I worry a bit she’ll twist her ankle that way, but it’s out of my hands.
I read a little from an academic book and article yesterday on some theoretical stuff I’m interested in, nice to do that. I thought being a professor would mean doing that all the time but it’s much more a matter of coasting on grad school while getting emailed and meetinged at high volume!
I watched another Ken Loach movie while doing the dishes, that guy’s a downer! Good stuff though and watching multiple films by a single director fits my trainspotter personality - gotta catch ‘em all.
At one point while I was on a walk and making a call a hawk swooped down and picked me up, carried me off. I tried to call for help but couldn’t get any cell reception that high off. It took me back to its nest, asked me questions about literary fiction. I tried to fake it for a while - putting that liberal arts degree to work! - but eventually had to cop to the reality that I don’t read that stuff really. It snorted something about philistinism - hawk snorts are a sight to behold, let me tell you (the hawk said this cliched but also misapplied metaphor proves its point), they’re all at once ear-painingly loud and high pitched, threatening, and a little funny and cute - then sighed and carried me back home. As it flew off I shouted “sorry to ruffle your feathers” and it shat on me. Not saying I don’t deserve it, but inflicting just deserts is still rude. That sensibility suits me for political office, if you think about it.
