jet lag

The trip back home took 24 hours, from the walk down the sleeve to the 747 to the buzzer on my apartment door and my wife in the hallway, wearing her cat's eye glasses and short moppy hair. She'd made supper, somehow timing the whole thing perfectly with my arrival. I'd slept 3 hours out the last 29. How was I walking and thinking coherently? After too short a time awake we were dead asleep. I woke around six AM with a fully assembled fantasy in my head, a clear memory of having spent extra days in Australia, filming waterfalls and losing equipment and taking Elan along with me for the whole thing. Once the fantasy cleared itself and I remembered that I was back in my own bed, I felt good, I felt more relaxed than I had in months. Even now, at four in the morning, unable to sleep, my body still tuned to another hemisphere, I feel unnervingly good. Maybe a fortnight in the Antipodes was all I needed to realign myself. Or maybe, once the dial swings around to North American time, my parade of anxieties will start marching to the familiar frequency.

This time around the return home has been deeply satisfying. Sometimes I come back with nothing to look forward to but days in the office and a dirty apartment, but with my new position, nobody wants me in the office. The producers look nervous when I show up, as if I'm about to angle for more money or about to launch a lawsuit over hours spent at the office. I chat for a bit and they nod politely at first. Then they lean in close and say, "You should get some rest". And I should. I should. But it's more satisfying to see the fear in their eyes.

It could be I just look a little crazed with fatigue. Or I'm boring them with tales of getting lost in rush-hour traffic in Sydney. Don't ever drive in or to Australia.