Throwback Sunday

Suddenly it’s 2007. I’m 22. It’s Sunday and I’m just a few hours away from my shift. I’ve been in the “graveyard” shift for some few months. My body clock had been reversed permanently since I got my work. It’s a weekend but for me it’s my last workweek. My rest days have been moved to Monday and Tuesday and that’s not really a problem for me. I don’t really mind, as long as it pays the bills, right?

My shift starts at 9:00 p.m. I woke up a little earlier and see that my housemates are watching the showbiz talk show on television. I get up still a bit groggy, took my towel and showered.

I’m a bit zombifield. I start with my hair. I decided to grow it longer than the usual for a change. Plus it would allow me to have more me time in the shower because really, women pay attention to their hair the most.

Unlike my other housemates, I have an on-going bathroom time rate of around 10 minutes or less. Either I’m a slob or I just take less shower time because I got a lot of things to do besides scrubbing my foot or massaging my scalp.

A few minutes later, I’m out and I go about finding the next suitable clothes I have for a Sunday going to work. Something rape-friendly because I’d be commuting at night perves are just around every corner. I know, I’m that paranoid. But when you’re living alone in a city like this, a little precaution is necessary even if it’s just preventing those cleavage to see the light of day (or night).

I dried my hair via the very trusty electric fan that we have (which by the way, also needs a little cleaning). I let the warm air through my scalp. It was a relaxing thing, it nearly drifts me off to the time when my grandmother brushes and kisses my scalp. It was a blissful time, then. I was eight.

In the background, I could hear my housemates clattering about the showbiz news, I dreaded it a bit and envied them. It was a laid back sunday for them, they’ve cleaned the house.

I, on the other hand is dressed and ready to find the perfect sales pitch when I enthusiastically address each call I receive from a semi-beat up AVAYA phone. Calls get routed from all over the world and with a neutral and sometimes mistaken as a Wisconsinian-accent (how can they tell? but I never bothered to ask), I answer every inquiry and every irate and frustrated caller. I was LUCY by night.

And this is me after shift.


Boy, was I ray of sunshine back in 2007. 🙂


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