Back door Jet Lag

This time jet lag snuck in the back door, resetting the clocks like a teenage daughter out till dawn. I had a whole week of sleep, cycles, and serenity. Then the crabbiness, the microscopic analysis of domestic affairs. Bursting into day eight of our return like a real concern, the un-emptied dishwasher becomes a snake in the grass of delayed onset jet lag.

We’re home and antsy again. Finding problems to fix. Is this why I meditate? So I remember there are no problems. I actually don’t have problems. Jet lag is a luxury not a problem. Can’t it be as it is? Empty the dishwasher.

Oakland’s shifting summer weather is like Copenhagen, but higher highs punctuate the fashion climate. Back home I am in a short sundress, the room so muggy one night it’s hard to sleep. Two days later, I wear a pea coat. The witchy Bay weather never settled for long.

In bed, I order shoes—both lamenting and justifying such a quick 180 from my new slow fashion resolution. Copenhagen gave me an awakening of conscious: Think about what business practices I support with my spending. Did jet lag cause me to forget? Miz Mooz, are you slow in your fashion? Do you sustainably source your materials, protect the environment, and respect workers’ rights and wages, or do forced hands and smushed lives stitch the darling mauve leather Shay sandals I just had shipped? I swear though, the shift is happening. For years I’ve been opting not to pay attention to who makes my clothes. What do they call that, an inconvenient truth?

Maybe awakenings can be gradual. As a result of slow fashion research, I have foresworn Forever 21. Not that I’m surrendering to the age gap—god no. I forever love the trashy fashion they churn out. I’d wear that shit all day, gold bomber jacket perfectly matching my gold foil leggings. But I’ve started to feel like an asshole if can afford to buy fair labor clothes and I don’t. I would never feel like an asshole in gold foil leggings though.

My wife hasn’t slept all week. Jet lag swooped her up and tumbled her hard. I slept like an angel baby for 7 days straight. All week I reveled, free from intense self-obsession and self-centered fear. Is this the promised land, I thought? Is this how normal, sleep-hydrated brains work? Have I finally arrived? My years of fitful sleep and anxious brain chemistry miraculously rewired by the fresh, Copenhagen air. I had finally solved life. 

And then day 8. Delayed onset no sleep. Delayed onset internal clock rebooting to a 9 hour time zone change. Delayed desire to be helpful and empty the dishwasher. Is this domestic bitchiness attributable to jet lag or am I passing the buck?*

By the way mom and dad, so sorry I would come in late and reset your bedroom clock on the weekends. Like you didn’t have a watch at your bedside. Like this actually worked?

by: annie.

 

*I emptied the dishwasher. It took me, like, two minutes.

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