It's been quite the big weekend for the country - four days off, centenary celebrations, Pearse rising, Jesus rising, temperatures rising, rumours that a military Marty Morrissey is to be made into an action figure with moveable eyebrows and Batman v Superman breaking box-office records in its opening weekend.
Now I haven't seen the movie (Batman v Superman, not Marty's). My attention span (or stunted version thereof) is a constant source of both confusion and amusement to those around me who have been blessed with standard-issue focusing abilities. But no matter, I've listened to the reviews of friends who decreed the film to be incoherent, messy and, despite the fact that it clips along at an exaggerated pace, it's essentially busy-without-actually-delivering-anything-of-truly-satisfying-substance.
All in all, a description that also perfectly describes the State of the Nation this morning as we return to normal after the long weekend.
We're waking with a hangover of sugar, patriotism and pain from the excessive eyerolls that we threw at that young fella on the phone.
Behold the four stages we'll all pass through together today.
Jesus wept.
- Is that the Angelus or the alarm?
I imagine that after the resurrection, Jesus had a quick catch up with his boys ('you're a LEGEND, man'), girlfriend ('why aren't you wearing the shroud I got you for Christmas?') and Mama ('if you ever do that to me again, I'll kill you') and then ascended into heaven like Sputnik. Commencing countdown, engines on. This was a man who took his work seriously and I can only imagine that he was anxious to get back to his celestial office.
But I would wager that we, as a nation, did not feel as Sputnik-y when the alarms went off this morning. With no discernible sleep pattern over the last few days other than sleeping face down in a soft pillow of melted chocolate, today's 7am wake-up call was as unwelcome as Pontius Pilate looking for an industrial vat of handwash. Though it did have a bit of an Angelus feel to it; remember when the Angelus was full of people involved in random stuff like car-theft, biscuit-dunking or going through a Magic Door to the ice cream factory/zoo but when they heard the bell, they'd look up to the sky like they'd just had a vision and had encountered some type of temporary paralysis? Good times.
And yet that was me this morning when the alarm went off and I was roused from a dream involving Michael D (except he had a Mini Egg for a head) being pursued down O'Connell St by Donnie Darko's Frank-the-not-so-happy-bunny. I stared towards the ceiling for a good ten minutes in a state of paralysis before channelling some type of outcast serpent, slithering out from under my duvet and looking under the bed to see if Frank was there (no sign of him but I did find remnants of Michael D's brittle shell egg-head).
- Regret
Why did I spend last night practically snorting the remainder of the Mini Eggs up my nose and texting my friends to see if they are in possession of my jacket? Why did I take a three hour nap on the couch when the sun was actually shining for once? Why did I pretend to be your own personal reverse-Jesus, turning red wine back into water once imbibed? Be grand, I said. You'll feel fine, I said. Now we feel about as lively and enthusiastic as Lazarus.
But who can empathise and regulate my regret? Wait, Siri, call Judas. Judas knows what I'm talking about. He's in a worse state. Look, we've all been there - kissed some guy with a man bun and decided in retrospect that this really wasn't a great idea. But Judas, you must know that you've taken it too far. You must have The Ultimate Fear and honestly, all the guys think you deserve it.
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And this makes me feel better. In comparison, my regret is, in the words of Monty Python and possibly the first pope, wafer-thin. It's bite-sized. It's the size of the aforementioned Mini Egg. It's just the veritable tip of regret.
It gives way to bleak acceptance. Like Michael D dreading the inane waffle that will come with the visit of Enda Kenny ('Who's your sexy daddy? JESUS, SHUT UP, ENDA, NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR IT'), there's no way out of this. We must power through to the next stage.
Commencing countdown, engines on.
- Bribery
Jesus spent 40 days and 40 nights in the desert, I've watched '40 Days and 40 Nights'; we both know pain. And also the impact of bribery and temptation.
And so I make promises to myself and deals with any devil that promises me caffeine. If I get up now and wash my hair, I can go back to sleep for 20 minutes. If I make it to the coffee machine before the second alarm goes off, I can have two espressos and they won't count towards my daily coffee quota. If I wear a Batman cape, people will get out of my way and I'll make it to the office faster. And if I wear the mask, I can probably sleep at my desk and no one will notice.
- National camaraderie
We're all in this day together. We are the Henry Cavill of employees; we're here, our hair is shiny but there isn't a lot going on behind the over-bright eyes.
But there's a limit to this national love. If someone mentions anything about a grand stretch, I swear I'll go all Sputnik-y Lex Luthor on them.
We're not a nation of superheroes or saints. We're more of an Aldi version-John McClane with a collective headache, scrambling our way towards the pharmacy to pick up some of those tablets that even Moses would appreciate this morning. Yippee ki-yay.
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Amen to that.
