This morning I simply could not get out of bed. My alarm went off at 6:45, which is in itself rather late for someone who has to be at work at 8:00 a.m. and has to drive 20 minutes to get there. Then I proceeded to hit the snooze alarm–four times. Nine minutes between each alarm brings us to 7:21, and I finally managed to crawl out of bed. If you’re keeping track, this gives me nineteen minutes to get out of door and to work. That will never happen. I brush my teeth, shower, feed the cats, perform my ritual morning weigh-in (Mondays I take a picture of the scale, which is horrific all by itself), and try to juggle putting on my makeup (ended up throwing the powder and brush in my purse to finish at work), putting together my lunch (thank God I had the foresight to make my wrap, bag up the chips, and throw some fruit in a glass container the morning before), taking my medicine, and making a smoothie. Mornings I am also supposed to unload the dishwasher and start a load of laundry, but there was no way that was going to happen.
This routine is fairly typical for me, particularly on a Monday morning, but I can’t help but feel that I should be more like those insane (in my opinion) morning people– up at 5 for for a five mile run, shower, have a leisurely breakfast while reading the paper, carefully iron and lay out my morning clothes, spend hours on hair and makeup… well, you get the idea. If you don’t, picture Sandra Bullock in the opening scene of The Proposal.
I just don’t think I have what it takes to be a morning person. A night owl, sure. A morning person, never. 5 AM is that heinous time when one of our cats tries to wake me up by clawing at my back and purring. I think he’s trying to get me to lick his butt, but that’s another story entirely.
So I wake up at 7:21, rush through the morning routine and show up to work looking, I’m sure, like a deranged drunk who half-remembered an important appointment and tried to dress appropriately. Makeup goes on at work, breakfast gets consumed at work (or, in the case of my smoothie, on the way to work), and hair lies flat and lifeless all day because it isn’t long enough to put into a ponytail. I didn’t bother trying to find my black bolero jacket, so my target dress looks like exactly what it is. My old black falling apart mary janes aren’t my fault, though– I’ve twice had to return shoes to Zappos because they don’t fit. Third time’s the charm, I hope.
Maybe I should make a real effort to be more of a morning person, what do you think? Although in my case, I’m afraid it might mean an 8:30 bedtime. Why does 26 feel so old all of a sudden?