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Morning Comes Disjointed


I don't really think of myself as a morning person. To me a morning person is someone who wakes up at six AM. Full of life, singing a song from a Disney movie while birds fly around them and prepare their breakfast. I do not wake up like this. I wake up around 7:45, and once my brain accepts that we are actually awake, I'll lie there for a while and ponder things. Mostly I just ponder how comfortable my bed is, but sometimes it's other things. This morning it was the lovely lass I found myself on a date with, who told me “dating is fine, I'm not looking for a relationship right now”. Then two days later she's in a relationship with a guy who looks like he was kicked out of Mumford and Sons.

I rise. Following that is a part of my morning that I've had for almost as long as I've been alive. My “morning zen” time. My zen comes in the form of an hour of music before I do anything. Before breakfast, before working out (I admit it, Wii Fit), before checking e-mails and before wasting 20 minutes on BuzzFeed. This is time when the music I love wakes me and readies me for the day. I also sit and concentrate over what all I need to accomplish on that particular day. Zen is immediately followed by breakfast. Usually an egg and some turkey bacon—I have to watch my girlish figure after all.

This is how I like my mornings to be. Simple. Uncomplicated. Relaxed. I truly dislike being rushed in the mornings. So if any one of the moments mentioned above get interrupted, or sped up, or just generally undercut from their full enjoyment. My mornings become annoying. Morning Zen is disrupted by a phone call from some computer asking me if I want to save more money on my insurance. Breakfast is rushed because the cat is leaving a wide variety of pools of things around the house.

This morning, was not a great morning. This morning was one of those mornings that went from “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning!” to “Black Watch Plaid!” (and if you get that reference, you deserve a gold sticker!). It began with the phone rigging. Which woke me with a start, and a mad dash to grab said phone off my night stand, knocking my glasses case off in the process. The process alerted me so quickly that I answered the phone without even looking at who it was. “Hello?” a dazed and confused Andy said.

To my dazed and confused greetings, the voice on the other end, accented by the sounds of banjo music in the background, asked: “Harold! How's your hemorrhoids doing?” The mental process in my brain went something like this: “Harold? Am I Harold? No. I'm not Harold. Who is Harold? There is no one named Harold here? Wait, did he say hemorrhoids?” It took all of three minutes to convince the man on the other end of the phone that I was not Harold, nor did I suffer from hemorrhoids. Eventually, he went back to his banjo music.

Fully alert, I found that attempting sleep again was useless, so I got out of bed and began my zen time. Naturally, on a day that began with Harold and his hemorrhoids, zen time was cut short. Another phone call, this time my aunt in a tizzy over if I could run and get my grandmother's medication. I won't go into the details, but it would wind up being an entire bag worth of various wonder drugs.

As a result, breakfast was not the nice morning moment of joy that I like for it to be. My egg and turkey bacon replaced by two organic pop tarts (what?), and coffee. A sprint to the bathroom and soon I was under the water. I stood there covering myself in suds (you're welcome, ladies) and pondering if I could manage to shave myself without draining most of the blood from my body. It sat there slightly mocking me. The five bladed beast that rests in my grandfather's old spice shaving mug.

“You really wanna try this today, son?” it seemed to say, and once I realized that I was having a fictional conversation with a razor blade, I knew today would not be a good day to try to shave myself.
Dressed and out the door, I made it to the pharmacy. In the space of half an hour, the medication had been delivered to my grandmother. After playing medicinal drug mule, I thought a bite of lunch might not be bad since my breakfast had been less than awesome.

I went to a sandwich shanty, and ordered—spoiler alert—a sandwich. So here's something about me that you might not know. I don't like lettuce. I know, try not to get overwhelmed by that statement, and apologizes all around to those of you on the Lettuce Board of America. It just lacks—substance. Spinach I like, tender, green, and the drug of Popeye. As such, I've never understood why anyone puts lettuce on a sandwich. It doesn't do anything, unless its sole purpose is to trick you into thinking that the roast beef and bacon sandwich you're about to go to town on is actually healthy.


 You can see where this is going, can't you? I ordered a turkey pesto without lettuce, and BAM. It was tanked to the gills in lettuce. The rest of my day didn't get any better, but that is for another time. Next time I wake up and things don't go this way, I'll just say in bed, or risk everyone facing my wrath much alike that of the dreaded cthulhu.  

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