She Might Be Right

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Daytime and Nighttime

Daytime and Nighttime had a modern relationship.

They talked about spending more time together. They mapped it out on the calendar.

Somehow though, that time together was always on one of next week's pages of the Franklin Planner. Never present tense.

Daytime and Nighttime, you see, were quite proud of what they and each other were doing in their chosen fields.

The root of their problem was this. Daytime worked a standard shift. She fought morning traffic to the office with drive-time radio filling the background.

Nighttime always worked an alternate shift. His job began at dusk.

Their relationship had always been so. Daytime and Nighttime. Some said that they were too different to form a lasting union. Others noted that opposites attract.

Daytime and Nighttime just knew that it was love.

Daytime, with her golden hair, was the optimist of the two. Warm and friendly, she could be downright sunny most of the time.

Nighttime, tall and dark, saw the glass as half-empty. A brooder to some. Deep in thought to others.

Nighttime could nonetheless touch you with his clarity, with ideas that could open eyes like star-light.

There was a period, in their salad days, when time together wasn't an effort. It needed not to be planned by phone. They gracefully slow-danced through their poorest of economic times.

For when Daytime and Nighttime were together, there was harmony.

All the beauty and color of every sunset known. All the promise and good intention of every sunrise imaginable.

They were good to each other.

But this is a modern fable. And this is the era of two-income households.

Nighttime soon began to fare well at his workplace. He was in the right place at the right time. They liked that he was consistent and reliable.

Daytime's career shortly thereafter took a similar upswing. Her boss liked her enthusiasm. She weathered any storm that crossed her desk and came back the next day like clockwork. Eager as ever.

What developed was this: A pattern of momentary union followed by extended periods apart.

Daytime saw Nighttime for a brief while every morning before she went off to work. He waited up for her, giving her a kiss goodbye before putting himself to bed alone.

Nighttime got to see Daytime every evening for all too short a spell. They'd talk. She would give him a hug and send him off to his overnight job. Then, she would dine alone.

The majority of their communication was etched in texts and Facebook postings.

Although they only saw each other but in passing twice a day, the joy of their relationship remained obvious. When together, they shone brightly enough to fill the sky. It was enough to make their neighbors stop and comment on the splendor of their marriage.

And that, my friend, is why Daytime and Nighttime remain a couple to this day.

In their youth, they believed that they had time in the future to pull back on one career or another. But each household bill and each paycheck bound them tighter and tighter to their occupations.

So Daytime and Nighttime spend their time apart thinking about those times when they were together.

Someday soon, however, they must take a leap away from financial security. A difficult leap away form the feeling of self-worth that comes free of charge with a career.

It is a leap that few take nowadays. Here's hoping that Daytime and Nighttime do.

It is, after all, a leap into each other's arms.


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