The Kinky Green

As Planned

Posted in The Physical by Joy on June 17, 2009

Today, I didn’t drag my ass out of bed for a morning run as planned.

I opted instead for extra minutes of fitful, interrupted sleep, if you can call it that. I greedily took too many.  Underestimated the time I would need to shower, primp, eat, walk the dog I’m sitting.

Numbers make no sense when I’m lying between the sheets. I know this. I don’t know why I think any morning will be different. Why I think I’ll suddenly comprehend, be able to work out a new morning schedule from the comfort of my bed.

I know I’ve cut my morning too close as soon as my feet hit the floor. I’m cursing myself, my laziness, before I take my first step.

Why does the hot water take so long to heat when I’m running late? Where’s my razor? Why do none of my clothes fit right or outfits work when I’m pressed for time?

I allow myself one change, then I’m out the door, leaving my delicious (and economical!) iced coffee on the kitchen counter and my umbrella in its stand. Going back for the umbrella, I leave the chilled caffeine behind in its insulated cup, where it will be waiting for me this afternoon, ice cubes long melted into oblivion. I managed to remember the red toile skirt with the lime green stain, but there’ll be no time to drop at the cleaner.

I feel the minutes slipping away as I march toward my canine charge. He’ll only have a short walk this morning, but I vow to take him for a lengthy spin after work. He’s hiding under the bed when I arrive, unresponsive to my pleading calls. I figure he takes his general disdain for interruped sleep and a.m. hours from his owner, that one.

When I finally urge my four-legged friend out of hiding, we’ve only got time for a quick loop. Pee, pee, sniff, and poop, and we’re making our way back. I leave him with pats and praise and accolades and 2/3 a cup of kibble before rushing myself to the bus stop.

The first of the many rain drops promised for the day kiss my forehead just as I arrive and spot the behemoth of public transport on the horizon. The umbrella, I recall too late, is still propped against the outside door, where I’d deposited it to ease the navigation of stairs with my furry, hyper, leash-bound ward, doing me as little good as the much-desired iced coffee, taunting me from my tiny kitchen.

And all I can think as the rain quickens and my eyelids begin drooping? I should’ve dragged my ass out of bed for a morning run as planned.


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