“Like most mornings, this one started out as a failure.”
So went my first tweet of the day. After a night featuring a little bit of each of my sleeping problems as so many nights do, I decided to sleep in, not shower, and do everything as if I only had half an ass, or at least as if the other half of my ass were still in bed.
I’m exaggerating by saying “like most mornings” because most of the time I’m pretty good at getting up and moving with my consciousness fully aware. When I go next door to get my coffee I am not only, but sociable; the caffeine is merely consumed to accentuate those already positive features. On some mornings, though, it either feels like an injustice to have to get out of bed at that time, and/or every piece of the routine is botched by a combination of my own clumsiness and the collaborative malfunctions of everyday things. I shave my armpits with shampoo (actually happened) or lather my hair with shaving gel (have come very, very close). I put my underwear on backwards, my pants inside out, and can’t seem to get around the inside of a shirt without putting my head through a sleeve.
Makeup drips only my clothes (fun fact: I put on a bib for this very reason) and I (almost) put face wash in my hair instead of styling product.
And then when I leave for work, I take that first step crossing the street and get hit by a bus. On purpose.
I’ve never actually done that, for religious literalists out there, but the only thing that can be sure to save me from this is laughter. If you can’t laugh at yourself putting both feet in the same pant leg, get under those covers and cry yourself back to sleep. There is no hope for your day to get better.