Having a restless one...
I work hard, I think, rolling over in the bed for the n-teenth time. I deserved that avocado.
I was sleeping great until 47 minutes ago, when my housemate finally made his way to the bedroom. An on-call night is never an easy sleeper, I could sleep for an hour and be woken up by the call of duty, or I could sleep deeply for 10 hours and wake up so refreshed that I wonder why I ever thought a glass or two of wine was the ticket to a good rest. That's a topic for another tangent, but one that somewhat relates.
No, what's keeping me awake is the avocado. The symbol of all that is frustrating me about this living situation right now. Last night, I cuddled down for a good sleep (or not, it is never certain) with the certainty that whatever tomorrow (or an hour from then, whatever) would bring, I would greet the day with a piece of wholegrain toast with a perfectly luscious avocado on top. Some cherry tomatoes on the side for brightness. I was thrilled, I had bought the avocados, perfectly rationed them out for consumption over the coming weeks, and slowly, my treasures were coming to ripeness, one by one.
Where did the morning find me? Staring angrily out of the kitchen window through a haze of tears, trying to carry on with my day, which was completely derailed because of the fucking avocado. It was gone.
I stalked to the bedroom, and before I even said good morning, I choked out the words that would dictate how the rest of my day:
You ate my Breakfast Avocado. Now I have no breakfast. It was perfect, and now it's gone.
I went on with my day, wholegrain toast, cherry tomatoes, lemony marinated olives, etcetera, I worked moderately hard, but when I sat down for my sensible lunch, I saw my coworker eating a piece of quiche with avocado, and was off to the piss again. When we started dating, he would go to the effort of buying that same packaged grocery store quiche, so when I woke up after staying over, we would have breakfast. With avocado. And cherry tomatoes, for brightness. It was how we would start our day before parting ways, me to do my weekly chores (usually with a couple glasses of wine in tow) and he to do... whatever. I would ride that avocado high until dinner some days, crawl into my bed at whatever hour deemed fit, and wake up to the contents of my kitchen largely intact, determined only by how many glasses of Chore Wine I had consumed. Now I flinch when I open a can of calming adaptogen beverage and continue to write, hearing how he restlessly turns in bed when I do. He's got to get up early tomorrow, both of us do... I shoulder the guilt of disrupting his rest, but does he do the same when mine is broken?
No sooner than I had written that last sentence, duty called. Part of me was relieved that I had not been sleeping soundly when that death bell tolled, that I had roused from slumber and moved into another room to type an angry post about an avocado, of all things, and saved everyone the kerfluffle, but it comes down to the root of the problem: I miss only being responsible for me. Keeping up with the shopping, trying to eat healthy with the influx of junk food, the additional cat boxes, trying to keep the blankets from reeking of dog, trying to teach this man how to be a reasonable roommate... it's a lot. Sometimes I feel like there are no positives.