I went ahead and worked out because I figured it was closer to Chef's time to get up (well, a little closer) and therefor I might have more of a chance of him waking. Oh how wrong I was. My quest to get into the apartment began at 5:45 a.m. Here's a list of things I did, yelled or tried to get in or wake my husband:
- 15 phone calls to his cell phone
- 21 text messages including some of these gems:
- Wake up, please!
- I'm locked out
- please please wake up
- Knuckles are raw
- I'm getting desperate here. Please please wake up.
- Going to see if security can let me in.
- No luck.
- Need to get to work.
- Still trying.
- Mondays suck
- I'm sure our neighbors hate me
- How are you not hearing any of this??
- I think you might be dead
- Cop knocks every two minutes (aka that three knock rhythm that cops use when trying to alert people they're there)
- Kicking the door
- Going to our windows (which were open. However, there was a large embankment and a large fence separating the embankment from the sidewalk) and yelling Chef's name.
- Throwing pretty large stones at the window screen so that I got the fan knocked out of the window.
- Asking the security guard to try and hike me over the fence.
- Trying to squeeze under the fence.
In the end (and by end I mean TWO HOURS after I first started trying to wake Chef up), it was a few more stones thrown at the window and me yelling his name again. His first response after I walked through the door: "Why did you try to call me? You know that never works?" It was only after a few minutes explaining the steps above that we both started laughing.
Two things:
1) I must have chilled out a little because I didn't cry, scream or have a nervous breakdown even being 90 minutes late for work.
2) If Chef and I choose to have a kid, I hope that kid will inherit Chef's ability to sleep through things (among other things).
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