A dispatch from the British Airways lounge at JFK, Terminal 7.
I’m drinking miso soup and removing my work email from all my devices. I’ve parked my things on the table-top closest to all the self-serve free food. I deserve this, I whisper to my soul.
I’ve been working nearly seven days a week for the past two weeks. Why? Because I needed to prepare for my ghost to perform my job in my absence, apparently. I also believe that it had finally dawned—or just fell—on my boss that, were I to be hit by a bus careening down Broadway in the Garment District, the entire organization would capsize. Because no one knows what I do all day, least of all my supervisor.
In the lead-up to an 11-days’ return to the holy Motherland, I have been mercilessly flogged with bullshit, also known as my job. I only finished everything I needed to do to justify turning off my email notifications at exactly 9:15am this morning, the morning of my flight. I was up till 1am packing — meticulously pouring potions into my new travel kit and counting my underwear to last me the trip — because I’ve been leaving the office after everyone else and too tired to pack in advance. Then I left my visa and other printed materials for boarding at the office, tried to get to Target to buy new ink cartridges for my out-of-ink printer at home, ended up waiting at the train station for 15 minutes only to hear that there was no Manhattan-bound service, and then went home to find that my new lizard-baby wasn’t in his cage—again.
I’ve been weighting down the top of my gecko’s terrarium because he keeps Prison Break-ing and hiding out in my socks. He’s the size of my index finger. If I sneezed hard enough on said sock he would die. Meanwhile, the surviving baby turtle (yes, the other one fucking died and I am heartbroken), Sugar, has kind of morphed into a mega-hangry bitch and now I wonder, “Did you eat your sibling?” What has happened to all my babies?? Why are they so trash? “Because you got them off the street,” I’m reminded. Oh, yea.
God, I hope everyone’s still alive when I get home.
On the plus side, I had a beautiful four hours of sleep before I awoke seconds before my alarm went off to a Charlie Horse in my right calf muscle. My boyfriend, who got less sleep than I did, was frightened awake and then had to go for a cigarette to calm ze fuck down.
So, quick rundown of where we are so far:
- Not enough sleep for two weeks;
- All the stress and none of the support;
- Travel documents printed and then left at work;
- Out-of-ink printer;
- No Target transportation;
- Lizard who hates me;
- Fat turtle;
- Poor packing;
- Charlie Horse.
I deserve this. Or, I will take this. Because, thankfully, attendants in this lounge aren’t meant to look at you for too long, or at least not long enough to notice that you’re just a Broke Bitch in sweatpants that are covered in your dog’s white hair, and you easily make $50K less than everyone else in here.
There is a fountain in here. Do I … take a selfie by it??
I need to stop being so startled by the novelty of everything and look like I belong. Can you stop slopping food into your mouth and look like a sophisticated Asian?
Nope. I’m the only one in here in sweatpants.
THERE’S BEER IN HERE. AND WINE!