The Hippy Hippy Shake
Surviving an exhilarating day on three hours of sleep has left her slumped over her desk in exhaustion. A slightly twitching hand bears the cumulative effects of a congratulatory note regarding successful data collection from a professor in the morning, a lengthy afternoon session of scouring books and an equally long evening of slow writing to the white noise of stand-up comedy.
Happiness is draining too.
There is no energy left, and the promise of an early morning meeting tomorrow is sapping all life from her eyes. Then, just as she thinks it is all over, a rumbling rock and roll tune blares loudly from her earphones and a curious shiver comes over her.
Just as suddenly as she sat down, she is standing on her feet, hips cocked to the infectious boom-chick of the snare drum. She can’t help it, the wonderful swing of the drum sticks on the hi-hat is making her feet tap and shoulders shake. The door is wide open, but the music rushing through the room is contagious.
In a mad fit of animation, she leaps into an impromptu gavotte, derriere shaking in time to the pounding baseline. “Ain’t she sweet?” the lead singer asks in her left ear and she dances her agreement, arms raised above her head, eyes closed in a moment of secret rapture. Tripping lightly across the room, she struts cockily around the chair against the wall and turns, cropped hair flying to execute a series of messy pirouettes on the bed.
This is madness without method, pure and simple joy.
She belts the words with all her might, singing for the day gone by, for all the hours spent sitting in a chair crouched over documents with slowly closing eyes. She swings round joyously for the panicked emails sent at six in the morning, for sleep interrupted three hours too soon. She skips and leaps, shaking her shoulders wildly as the room spins round in a glorious blur.
All too soon, the moment passes and she stops to catch her breath and spots her neighbour standing in the hallway, staring at her with undisguised disbelief. It’s three in the morning, her eyes disapprovingly telegraph. Red-cheeked with embarrasment and exertion, she laughs, shrugs shyly and turns away, pulling her chair and reading towards her.
But in her left ear, the singer still croons, “Ain’t she sweet?” And unable to suppress it, she does a last exuberant hop for good measure, just a little one.
Because if you ask her very confidentially, sometimes, life really is that good.
Happiness is draining too.
There is no energy left, and the promise of an early morning meeting tomorrow is sapping all life from her eyes. Then, just as she thinks it is all over, a rumbling rock and roll tune blares loudly from her earphones and a curious shiver comes over her.
Just as suddenly as she sat down, she is standing on her feet, hips cocked to the infectious boom-chick of the snare drum. She can’t help it, the wonderful swing of the drum sticks on the hi-hat is making her feet tap and shoulders shake. The door is wide open, but the music rushing through the room is contagious.
In a mad fit of animation, she leaps into an impromptu gavotte, derriere shaking in time to the pounding baseline. “Ain’t she sweet?” the lead singer asks in her left ear and she dances her agreement, arms raised above her head, eyes closed in a moment of secret rapture. Tripping lightly across the room, she struts cockily around the chair against the wall and turns, cropped hair flying to execute a series of messy pirouettes on the bed.
This is madness without method, pure and simple joy.
She belts the words with all her might, singing for the day gone by, for all the hours spent sitting in a chair crouched over documents with slowly closing eyes. She swings round joyously for the panicked emails sent at six in the morning, for sleep interrupted three hours too soon. She skips and leaps, shaking her shoulders wildly as the room spins round in a glorious blur.
All too soon, the moment passes and she stops to catch her breath and spots her neighbour standing in the hallway, staring at her with undisguised disbelief. It’s three in the morning, her eyes disapprovingly telegraph. Red-cheeked with embarrasment and exertion, she laughs, shrugs shyly and turns away, pulling her chair and reading towards her.
But in her left ear, the singer still croons, “Ain’t she sweet?” And unable to suppress it, she does a last exuberant hop for good measure, just a little one.
Because if you ask her very confidentially, sometimes, life really is that good.
She said, she said at 3:42 am
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