I don’t handle mornings gracefully without a giant sea of specialty coffee in my stomach. Even then, your odds of me being in a civil mood are slim. It is my personal belief that “morning people” are people who have never had a hangover. They are those same people who believe a good run can cure anything and never look to self-medicate with a drug of choice. They are those people who make their own home decorations and grow their own herbs and have a natural childbirth. Those people and I have nothing in common.
Today is my second morning waking up before 6:30. It wasn’t good. I slumpwalked downstairs for breakfast. Steve poured me coffee into my favorite mug – a black and white monogrammed one my sister got me. Awhile ago, the handle broke off, but Steve superglued it back on for me. Apparently superglue is not eternal. As I held the mug up to my lips by the handle, the cup part dropped, splattering warm coffee all over my body on the way down to my freshly mopped kitchen floor.
I had to take a second shower (to my three male readers: all though this is an insignificant and quick task for you, for a woman with hair, it is a giant pain in the ass). I still had some extra time, so I popped in my yoga DVD. While I was standing erect with my palms pressed together above my head (the only yoga pose I know), the spinning ceiling fan knocked my phalanges together as I yelped in pain.
Finally, I make it to work, cursing the morning and my shitty home brewed coffee I never got to drink. As soon as I walk into my office, I see a ceiling tile in pieces on the floor and water stains on the carpet all around it. The ceiling is dripping. Someone surmises the problem to be the air conditioner, and a service is called. “Please don’t shut off the air,” I whine like the overheated hyperhidrosis victim I am. No one gives a shit what I have to say about my clammy hands – the air is turned off. The temperature climbs and climbs until I can’t take it any longer – I leave to get a cold specialty coffee, and consider not returning at all.
But I do return. Because I’m a responsible adult who needs a paycheck. And because I know in the grand scheme of life, these problems aren’t really problems. There are people with a much shittier time of life than mine. But I’m so busy being a self-involved whiner I don’t even notice it. Tomorrow the alarm will sound bright and early again. And maybe tomorrow I won’t violently suffocate it with my pillow.