I think I should have stayed in bed this morning. My last memories from the previous night involve Miles picking on me for falling asleep in the car on the way home from the office. I remember vehemently denying the absurdity—which usually means that he hit the nail on the head. He volleyed, “C’mon, your head was lolling side to side at every turn!” I shrug and reply, “It’s a new form of yoga.” He shook his head, laughing, but he let it drop.
This morning we arose later than usual. I was groggy. And my neck hurt for some odd reason. *clears throat*
I stumble to the bathroom to wash my face. And, I do mean stumble. Into the wall. I feel as though I’m portraying myself as drunken and disorderly, picking fights with the drywall—but I swear to you that the wall started it.
After the scuffle, I exit the scene. I reenter, remembering that I still need to wash my face. The wall distracted me. I glare at it, its tongue wagging at me mockingly. I proceed to grab my toothbrush.
After exiting the bathroom again, with the nagging feeling that I possibly brushed my teeth twice this morning, I begin to get ready. Miles calls from downstairs, “Just so you know, I’m ready to go, but no rush! I’m just relaxing on the couch!” I sigh, frustrated. I don’t like people waiting for me. My face! Goodness! I still haven’t washed my face! Where was my head!?
I finish getting dressed, faltering only a handful of times before realizing that I slipped a tennis shoe on my left foot and a high heeled boot on my right. Only a handful, though. Ten at the most. Gosh my neck feels stiff…whatever did I do!?
Shoes in order, I unsteadily navigate the stairs. I add oatmeal and water to a bowl and place it in the microwave. I’ll have to bring my breakfast into work with me today. I feel rushed, cranky. I feel like I need to wash my face. Egads, I DO. I rush upstairs while the microwave does its dance. In the bathroom, I stare at the Noxzema for ponderous moments, my brain cells singing a chorus of, “uhhhhhhh?”
Eventually my limbs go into autopilot, deeming my mental capacity as unworthy to complete the morning’s ritual.
I pick my way downstairs as Miles retrieves my bowl of oatmeal from the microwave. “Uh, Laura, your oatmeal exploded.”
Very cranky now, I snap, “Yeah, and my neck is stiff too but by God my face is clean!”
I bet that stung. He’ll be licking his wounds for days.