Getting up every morning seems so pointless.
My bed is warm and inviting…and then my alarm clock goes off. As I roll over to turn it off and then fall back asleep, my fist pounds down on an empty space on my bedside table. I roll back into my warm sheets and glare hatefully at the spot on my windowsill where I remember putting the dreadful contraption last night, now masterfully hidden by my thick curtains, and consider waiting it out. The blasting birdcall finally gets the better of me and I determinedly fall out of bed and stumble over to the hateful thing, imaginary sledgehammer in hand. Finally having rid myself of the component of morning torture, I realize how dangerously close this has brought me to my clothes I’d put out the adjourning night. Faced with the decision between maturity and a warm bed, my brain begins to bend. Half of it warns me that if I fall back into the temptingly-preheated bed, then it’s one set closer to lazing around on my computer all day and getting nothing done. The other half is much more reasonable in reminding me of the luxury of lying in bed and having lucid dreams that make a total of 0% sense and promptly forgetting them when I wake up. However, as soon as I take my first hypnotized step, my mature side of my brain plays its last card by reminding me that I have theater today. What’s theater? Those sheets look awfully warm…gosh it’s cold out here…THEATER!
The word echoes through my sleep-ridden brain, kick-starting it into action. Now frantic, I grab my clothes and shoes and trip over my robe cord in my haste to get to the door. I slam head-on into it, the fact that I’d locked it the previous night completely forgotten. I fumble stupidly with the doorknob until I hear a rewarding clock and shuffle down the stairs. One of the numerous problems with my room is that it literally couldn’t be farther from the bathroom if I’d tried (unless, of course, you count the roof as an acceptable option). I weave through the furniture in the front room and am faced with another steep, treacherous staircase. Once I heroically mastered this terrible deed, I face the washing-room. It’s usually adorned with the stray pile of clothes, further barring me from the coveted bathroom. Not only am I made to either jump over (if I’m feeling adventurous), or laboriously figure out the labyrinth, but I have to squeeze through a poorly-placed table and chair. The table is good enough at blocking the tiny hall in which the beloved bathroom is located, but Brother’s computer desk chair is constantly being left pulled out and completely blocking the hallway. I am forced to slow my long-suffering mission once again to shove it ungraciously to where the blasted thing belongs.
Finally, nothing stands between me and my bathroom, now slathered with rainbows, sun glares, and unicorn-ponies, except a door. A locked door. Hopefully, I knock on it, only to hear a chipper, ‘just a minute!’ float out. I’ve been beaten. Bathroom privileges are anything but fair, especially since my mother is right next-door to it. I slump against the wall for what seems like hours. Finally, a happy-go-lucky Mother with full make-up and scattered jewelry pops out and smiles triumphantly at me. It’s probably not near as smug as it seems to me, so I manage a groggy half-smile, which probably looks like a dead clam that’s been soaked in vinegar for a few days.
This is how most of my mornings go, only sometimes I get a lucky Friday and get to legally sleep in, or I get up early/late enough not to run into Mother at all. Being early almost never happens…late is much more promising.
Thanks for reading, guys!