4am wakeup call

Waking up at 4am means there are a lot more hours between breakfast and lunch.

A coworker told me a girl with short blonde hair and a cute dress and a Harvard Square Bookstore bookmark sat next to her on the bus and she tried to awkwardly and surreptitiously stare at the girl to see if it was me. Short blond hair, check. Cute dress, hopefully, usually, check. Harvard Square Bookstore bookmark, no check. If it really had been me, it would have been one from Porter Square Books.

I was on a bus though because I just came from Washington, DC this morning, I told my coworker, and somehow I was in the office by 8:30am. Not normal, I said. So tired, I said. Did you hear about the guy who figured out it was cheaper for him to live in Spain and commute daily by commercial plane to London, she said. That sounds crazy and awesome, I said. He has a gigantic house in Spain, she said.

My friend E has long told stories of her second child waking up repeatedly (and for the day) at 4am. I can barely stand one day of this. How does she survive on repeated days of it? Hopefully she goes to bed before 11pm, which was my bedtime last night.

Sister J is settling into her new home, her new life. Or, at least that’s the impression I got after only have 12 hours to spend with her.

I’ve known my college friends for 16 years. We all collided in the ‘Burg for a self-designed reunion this past weekend. We all have different memories of our four years there. Different favorite restaurants. Different buildings where we attended classes. Different dreams dreamt, lived. Different regrets. Different living spaces. The campus is different now too. Bigger, newer, sturdier, classier. And yet, we all ordered the same thing off the menu that we used to order when we were full time students.

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