11:58 a.m. - 06.23.2003
Rush Hour
I can hear the woman in the apartment above me as she goes through her morning routine. Her high-heels clip-clop across her hardwood floor like a horse on cobblestone as she dances this elaborate zig-zag pattern all morning, back and forth.
From the changing tempo I would guess that she's in some Shakespeare troupe for fun. Sometimes she's doing Richard III - deliberate and calculating. Other mornings she's a bustling Verona marketplace, she can't seem to get from one end of the the apartment to the other fast enough.
I can say that she has no comprehension of organization. As I see it, she clip clops to the kitchen to put the toast down, then clip clops to the other side of the room to get her keys, then rushes to the bedroom for her scarf, then back out to the mantle for her ear rings, then she shoots off to check on the toast, and then of course the butter and jam are kept on separate ends of the room.
And this goes on every morning. I want to go up one morning and tell her to try doing all the things located on one side of the room before moving on to another section.
Secretly though, I don't want her to. Her daily dance has become my alarm clock. The first claps of her heels wake me up. Then I know I have a good twenty-thirty minutes to lounge in bed and sort out my day and guess at her floor routine. Then, as her final claps head to the door for her dismount, I know it's my turn to get up and take the stage.
Unfortunately, there's no one underneath my place to reap the same benefits. But it's all good. My place is carpeted so the poor soul would sleep straight through the day anyway.
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