During the entire week, I’ve been telling myself than I need to wake up earlier that 10ish (and 11ish even), but have hardly made a conscious effort to meet that 9 o’clock wake up call. When I say hardly, I mean I haven’t even set any alarms, because I falsely convince myself it will happen naturally (of course the other reason is that my Thai-bought cell phone, only has annoying ringtones that are pretty much the equivalent of waking up to the racket of pots and pans, but with an Asian twist). Today, lo and behold, I woke up at 8.30 a.m. and in my disbelieving excitement that my biological clock had finally set itself right, I tried to transmit this excitement to my sleeping boyfriend, who could hardly understand what I was on about through his sleep-heavy eyelids. Enthusiasm diminished, I turned the other way and went back to sleep.
When we woke up at our regular 11ish time, we surprisingly managed to do everything we have always been saying we’d do on Saturdays but have never done until today. Saturdays are usually unrealistically inflated with all this hope and ambition of things we want to achieve, but secretly know we won’t. Today we were just more determined than usual and as a result I experienced the chaos and disorder of your average Greek farmer’s market for the first time, bought freshly-baked bread from the best bakery in town, got a new piercing and shopped at our local (evil) conglomerate for convenience’s sake. All this, while we trudged through what seemed to be the whole distance of Crete.
I have a thing with piercings, but I think this will be my last one. Of course that’s what I said about my other “last one” two years ago, and look at me now. It’s hard pretending I mean such absolute statements, when I know the impulsive bug in me just won’t stay put. I like to kid myself like that.
I have been making some more jewelry with the new beads I got in the mail last week, but have yet to take some good photos of them. When I sit down to bead I actually get so into it that time sort of freezes and so does my brain actually, because I completely forget what it is I was doing before I picked up the pliers, the beads and whatever else. I call it Beading Alzheimer’s, and the only cure I know of is more beads, please.