Morning Routine shmameen
It’s midnight on a Sunday night. I just go out of bed because all of the “nighttime routine” videos I watched on YouTube had a bunch of girls in them talking about tea and so I was telepathically forced to get up and make some tea. Now, they might have added soy milk or macadamia nut milk, not this girl. I went vanilla-caramel-essence-full-fatty-goodness-cow-milk creamer. MOOO.
I was struggling with the topic I’d post for this week’s My Story Monday post. I know stakes are high, soooo many people wrote in last week, so this one had to be good. Bam, morning routines. I’m even motivated to want to record an actual video. We all know the likelihood of me following through is unlikely. I do have an idea how it would go though: Picture it, me video recording the intimate hours of my morning.
The alarm goes off, and I squeeze as many snooze sessions as possible out of it. Mind you, I’ve pre-placed the camera so it shows me in bed waking up, meaning I actually got up fifteen minutes ago to set the camera up. Who knew snoozing for two whole hours was possible, Guinness…where are you when it really matters?
I then pad to the bathroom and grab my tooth brush, but ain’t nobody got time for that there paste, we doing this here task bone dry…at least there’s no chemicals in my mouth this way. On to hair. Nope, not doing that. I might put on eyebrows but probably not. Deodorant application correlates exactly to how many hours I slept, anything more than 6 hours a night, I get deodorant, anything less, Laura’s gonna’ be ripe come 10am.
Time to walk the dog.
Camera pans to cat, looking all dumb.
I DON’T HAVE A DOG…camera pans to litter box, poop turds on the floor because Samantha misses the actual box for spite sometimes.
Fuck off Samantha.
I then put on the same pants I’ve worn every Monday for two months. They’re stretchy maroon pants that are forgiving and came from Goodwill. My shirt is the same floppy shapeless black tank that hides my gut.
I make a cup of coffee, then spill it on the counter, 90% of it going underneath the microwave, I consider writing a note to remind myself to clean under the appliance tonight, then decide otherwise, I whisper to myself, “No one saw…we’re safe.”
The camera then pans to my calendar book. I’ve forgotten an 8am meeting, it’s 7:45, send out panicked text to meeting person. Three more phone calls come in during my morning bathroom visit. Reconsider becoming a Jesuit nun, once again, reminded they don’t allow our kind. I then tell myself I’ll leave work early today. I will never leave early, but it gets me through the day. I sit on the deck for three minutes, reading a book. This week it’s The Happiness Equation. It’s written by a guy who says all my unhappiness is in my mind, and not leaking underneath the microwave in the kitchen, or sitting on my carpet in the form of dried up cat chocopebbles on the floor.
I then leave my carefully planned lunch in the fridge, put my shoes on, then head out the door, new coffee in hand. I fantasize about naps on the drive to work. I park, then pep myself up for the day by shouting to myself, “You is kind, you is important…you can’t remember the rest of the line so this will have to do, get some.” I grab my work bag that weighs two kilos (is that a lot, I think that’s a lot, cause my purse weighs a lot.) I close the trunk.
Camera pans to the closed trunk lid of my car. The keys are inside it. I have no spare.