waking up in the wrong country

Today was Saturday.
Tomorrow will still be May.
Yesterday I woke up in the wrong country.
(Did I take my laundry out of the drier this afternoon?)

Disclaimer: two days from now I start finals-week of my second year of a Masters degree on a foreign continent across the Atlantic and north of the equator in another language. I suspect that my mind has reached the limit of its RAM.

8:27a: after six hours of cold-meds-induced-sleep a telephone interrupts my coma. Expecting my parents calling from another time zone, I greeted Jennifer-from-the-tenth-floor in Afrikaans instead of English. Without opening my eyes I shared a brief but rather bizarre conversation deliberating if Pauline-from-the-ninth-floor would be available to baby-sit Jen’s two kids that evening or not.
I had no clue.
Instead of talking more than was absolutely necessary and waking up in the process, I volunteered to watch them. We said goodbye.

8:30a: I dissolved into my mattress under blue tranquility smelling like fabric softener. I reset my alarm to 9:15a leaving enough contingency-time to get ready for our Senior Chapel at 10:30a despite my limited wardrobe options in dress-code-abiding outfits as I have moved halfway out of my apartment into another home.

9:12a: I wake up with Michelle-from-the-sixth-floor standing next to my bed waving three different denim-type items in the air―no jeans allowed at school though.
Without a word she starts tearing through my open suitcase and cupboards diging for more suitable attire.
I get up.
I shuffle my way to the window past boxes and class-notes to open the blinds. Instead of our main campus in Dallas, I see those familiar hills surrounding Windhoek where I stayed for three years.

“We’re going to be late, get dressed,” Michelle says and tosses a horrid-but-tumble-dryable-wash-and-wear-floral-below-the-knee-cut-dress at my feet.
"Get dressed. We have ten minutes to get to the bible study.”
“What about the Senior Chapel? Aren’t we going anymore?”

9:15a: The alarm-clock goes off scaring away the untamed wilderness of Namibia as I emerge from this parallel universe.

I am in America.
This is the third floor.
I don't own any floral dresses.

(I did baby-sit the kids, but that's another story.)