For someone with approximately nine frequent flyer miles to her name, I have had a horrible case of jet lag this week.
Sometime after I hopped in bed last Sunday night, my internal clock reset itself for Brazilian time. On Monday morning, I woke up at 6 a.m. That is, it was 6 a.m. in Rio de Janeiro. It was 2 a.m. in Pasadena.
I resisted the urge to put on a thong bikini and drink strong coffee, and finally got back to sleep. After a long, grumpy day, I went to bed on Monday night and apparently headed for the Caribbean. I woke up at 4 a.m. on Tuesday; 7 a.m. being the perfect time to get dressed for work in Aruba.
I awoke at 5 a.m. on Wednesday, just south of the border. I hopped out of bed, cranked up the all-mariachi radio station and rummaged around in the fridge for chorizo to go with my eggs. (Then I remembered that I’m a vegetarian.) Mazatlan is just two hours ahead, so I guess my internal clock is winding its way back home.
At least my biological clock stopped ticking awhile back.
