The One with a Bad Morning

I rolled out of bed and plopped myself down on the toilet for my morning pee. And that’s when I learned I had started my period. That should have been a sign to me about how my morning was going to go, but I was determined to remain positive. Reaching down to the cabinet I pulled out the very last pad. See! I was off to a great start!

Sleep waddling into the living room, I made my way to the tea pot. I usually start the day off right—with coffee. My husband gets up a little before me with our daughter and starts the pot. But this morning I heard him groan in despair from the other room.

We were out of coffee.

It was okay though. His groan warned me. I was prepared. I also like tea and there is caffeine in it. So a good morning I shall still have!

While it started to boil I settled in my morning spot on the couch. I could sort of see— through my sleep heavy eyes—my husband eating his cereal. Our daughter was dancing around to music. The cogs in my brain stretched and began to spin. So, I started to ask the important questions, starting with, “What day is it?”

It took some time but the answer came. Monday! Its Monday!

I am always so proud when I can remember without checking my phone. My to do list came down the assembly line in my brain. Food. We need food. And more pads. Grocery shopping—definitely happening. Paint more of the fence—since we bought our house there is always something to paint. Pick up house. Fun? Something fun? Go to the park?

Wait! Its Monday! That means tomorrow is Tuesday! My eyes shot open.

“Are we going camping TOMORROW!” I asked my husband.

“Yeah, I suppose.”

Camping! Tomorrow! I had done nothing, NOTHING, to prepare. And it was supposed to be our first trip as, you know, the parents on the family camping trip. Not the kids. And I was sure there is all sorts of stuff parents know about camping that I don’t because I was always the kid. Pancakes just magically appeared in the morning. I didn’t question how! But now…now I question. How! How did they do that?! Can you cook pancakes over a fire?

Somewhere in my panic I poured myself a cup of hot water and put a tea bag in it. Then I raced over to grab my cell phone. Surely Pinterest would know the things parents know about camping trips. Unfortunately however, even though I had put my phone to charge all night, when I got to it the screen was lifeless and black. Noooooo! This meant my charger was officially broken.

I mean, I guess I should have seen that coming. It was barely holding together by a few small wires. I switched to charge on my husbands charger. His was also dying, but had a few more connecting wires than mine. Fingers crossed.

I whipped out my laptop and plopped down on my bed. No worries. I could make a list here and send it to myself on Messenger. Then I could take it to the store with me.

Okay. Pinterest. Man I love that site. I found exactly what I was looking for in minutes. Even with my husband getting dressed next to me and my daughter jumping on the bed. I had a two page long list broken down into categories (mostly) and ready to send to my phone. I even watched a video about how to make coffee over the fire. It was going to be awesome.

“I’ve got to go. See you tonight.” My husband kissed us both goodbye and went to work.

I looked brightly at my daughter, “We are going to the store!”

“Yay!” She squealed.

Just as brightly, “Go put your shoes on.”

She didn’t move. But I didn’t notice because I checked my phone and it was still completely dead. What was I going to do! I had this great list but no way to get it to the store. There was no way I was going to remember everything on my own.

Suddenly a memory from my childhood flashed in my mind. It was my mom’s shopping list. She took it every time we went shopping. It was written down on paper. Wow. Just, wow. It had come to this. Actually, physically writing the list down. The word “archaic” came to mind for some reason. Did we even have any paper? Luckily, I found some and a pen on my husbands desk—because he’s old fashioned—then I came back to my shoe-less daughter in the bedroom.

With a less bright tone but still holding on to it, “Preciosa, Go get your shoes on.”

She ran excitedly out of the room.

I began to transcribe my list. And wouldn’t you know it, my computer gave me a low battery warning. I reached for where I keep my charger and it wasn’t there.

Nooooo! I wrote as fast as I could but there wasn’t enough time. I only made it half way before another dead battery stood between me and my list. Paper and pen was starting to look pretty smart right about then.

My daughter skipped back into the room, holding her boots above her head like a trophy and grinning from ear to ear, “I find them!”

“Good job! Now put them on.”

She looked a little confused. She did just turn two. And we usually put her shoes on for her, but she could put those boots on by herself. She does it all the time. So, I began my frantic search throughout the house for the elusive laptop charger.

I eventually found it. Not where I left it, though. Why? Why is it never where I left it? Anyways, my computer took a while to start. But it wasn’t a dull wait. I got to watch as my little proud and confident two year old melted into an overwhelmed puddle of tears.

She had managed to get her boots on. But they were on the wrong feet.

“Not working!” she yelled at me.

Getting a little more weary now, but since she had made progress, still gently, “That’s cause they are on the wrong feet. You have to take them off and put them on again.”

Her little eyes worked through my words and found the solution to her problem. She struggled to kick her boots off while standing up without falling over.

She looked up at me on the verge of tears, “I can’t!”

“Yes, you can,” I nudged her on, “Just sit down and pull them off with your hands.”

There was more two year old brain thinking about big mama words, and then she sat down to take her boots off.

The computer was on now so I finished transcribing my list.

“I can’t!”

She had all but given into her tears now. She had managed to get her boots off, but getting them back on again was suddenly impossible. I wrestled my closet and laundry basket for some sort of clothing to put on my body that wasn’t pajamas, “Yes. You can.”

“I can’t.” she screamed back.

With a firm and irritated voice I answered with what I also hoped was confidence, “Yes. You. Can.”

I pulled on a long sleeve shirt and jeans. The forecast called for temperatures in the mid 80’s. But it was clean. I rushed into the living room to find my purse. What else did I need? My cell phone? No. It was dead. At least I had coffee this morning, right?

Just then I saw my cup of forgotten tea sitting on the kitchen counter. My heart sank.

Not coffee. Just tea. And I didn’t even drink it. It was probably cold now. I poured some creamer in it and with my last shred of hope, I took a sip. It was not worth drinking. Nowhere near the relaxing and uplifting cup it was intended to be.

Pounding toddler feet stomped into the kitchen behind me carrying screams and a full on bawling little girl overwhelmed by boots. “I can’t! I can’t! I can’t!”

“Okay!” I relented, even though I knew she could, “Bring me your boots and I will help you.”

She scampered off to get them and then sat down right in my lap and held up her foot. I held the boot up, but didn’t push it onto her foot. She hesitated and then slipped her foot in. We did the same with the other. Compromise?

We managed to get out the front door without too much more delay. Our street was closed for construction so we had to walk a ways to our car but we made it.

As we drove I wondered what had happened. I so wanted to have a good morning. And here I was, irritated and unreasonably overwhelmed.

We pulled into a pretty good parking spot because the lot was delightfully empty. A good sign for the lines inside. I realized we had made the whole trip without hitting a single stop light. Which is saying something, because the rout I took had quiet a few.

“See, this morning can still turn around!” I thought to myself. And I set to work convincing the buttons on my daughters car seat that yes, I did in fact want to take her out now and they should let me do so. We made it to the sidewalk without running into traffic and were walking towards the front of the store when it hit me.

I didn’t have any money.

I had gotten one of those wallet cell phone cases last summer, so all of my cards were with my dead cell phone. At home.

“Nooooo!” I yelled out loud to the empty parking lot.

I couldn’t believe it. I was going to have to go through it all again. I looked at my watch. 9:30am. All this and it was only 9:30.

My daughter kicked and screamed as I loaded her back into her car seat. She loves shopping. She didn’t want to have to drive home and get my wallet either. But we did.

Then, with my wallet now correctly stowed in the cup holder next to me I came to the turn that would lead me back to the big, overwhelming grocery shopping trip. But then I just drove past it. Heading in the opposite direction.

What am I doing? I looked ahead and I saw a clear route to my favorite Latte Stand. By now my stomach was growling. Yes, it was time for coffee. I was planning to just drink it while we shopped. But once it was in my hand I remembered that the last time I did that, despite my best efforts, it had ended up all over the checkout floor.

My daughter’s favorite park was right in front of me. The sun was shinning warm through the green leaves. No children were there yet and it looked so peaceful. It should have been an obvious choice, but I hesitated and swerved into the parking lot at the last minute.

Under the glow of those lovely green leaves I drank my coffee. At last. A cool summer’s breeze washed over me and made my little girl’s curls bounce. She stretched her arms, legs and toddler brain on wood beams laid out by wise mothers before me who were  great-grandmothers now.  All her frustration, and mine, washed away. We reset the day.

After that, the shopping trip went quiet smoothly. Not only did I find everything we needed for our camping trip, I got a bag of coffee for the next morning and not just one, but two new cell phone chargers.  When we got home I put my little girl down for a nap and told my husband the whole story.

“Did you cry!” He asked when I got to the part about forgetting my wallet, “I would have cried.”

I laughed. Yeah, It was all pretty funny now.

“The moral of the story,” I explained with a chuckle, “Is that coffee is life.”

His next words changed my entire outlook on the whole morning.

“I think God was talking to you, saying: Rest. Enjoy.”

His words hit my soul like delicious hot chocolate.

Or that. Yeah. That could be the moral too.

 


 

About the Author

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Kia Gutierrez

“I’m a full time missionary turned full time mama. It’s a hard transition to go from saving the world to being the world to one little person. I’m in the process of letting God retrain my brain to see how being a mother is hands down the most powerful work I will do in my life. I call the process #LearningtoMommy

Just about any day, if there is a peaceful moment, you can find me with a cup of coffee in my hand talkin’ about Jesus with a friend. Otherwise it’s keepin’ up on dishes, moving into our new house,  and going on adventures with my hubby and our two year old daughter.”

You can find her on her blog


 

 

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The Literal Catcall (This Terrible Evening)

It was an average Monday evening. I was housesitting for a family friend, and I was tucked in on the couch with a pizza and an old movie. But then sun was starting to go down and one of the four cats I was in charge of had not come home yet, so I decided to pause Gregory Peck and perform a (literal) catcall. I knew I already had two inside, and the other two had come home quickly when I called on the first night, so I was sure I’d be able to find them, even if it took a little extra effort.

“Luuuuuna!” I called into the dusk.

I heard a cat meow and then saw her appear at the top of the fence. She ran to me and rubbed her head on my legs and then walked by me into the house to eat her dinner.

“Good,” I said, shutting the door behind me, “now I just need to find your brother.

A tip the family had left for me should I find that the cats weren’t coming in was to shake the container of dry food while calling out to them. It was the cat equivalent of ringing the dinner bell. So, after a few calls of “Tuffy!” went unanswered, I went back in the house, grabbed the plastic container and returned outside to make my official evolution into a temporary cat lady.

“Tufffyyyyy!”

*shake shake shake*

“Tufffyyyyy!”

*shake shake shake*

I walked around the backyard, up the side yard by the trashcans, around the front yard, then back in through the backyard for a final lap. Just when I was about to give up and start officially submitting to a panic, I heard a small, “meow.” I looked back at the door to see if Luna was looking on from behind the glass, wondering why I was shaking the food and not giving it to her, like some sort of deranged Pavlov experiment gone wrong. Was it her that meowed? I made another call to Tuffy, this time taking steps away from the back door and towards to the fence outlining the yard.

The meow got louder.

“Tuffy!”

“Meoooowww.”

I placed both hands on the wall and peered over—adding “apparent pervert” to my night’s resume—then let out a few more calls. Each “Tuffy” garnered a “meow”, but while I knew I was close, I still couldn’t see him. So, like any housesitter desperate to keep a cat alive so you don’t crush the spirit of the family, especially the 10-year-old girl who calls you her friend and has expressed more love for this cat than pretty much anything else, I called my mom.

I mostly just wanted moral support, as I was going into the thick of it now. Donned in sweats, a baggy t-shirt, still damp shower hair, and a makeup-less face, I was walking up and around the block to the house whose backyard bordered mine, and having seen the entire Taken series, I thought there was no harm in having my mom on the line, should the neighbor happened to be a crazed killer.

“Alright,” I told my mom, “I’m knocking now.”

From behind the door, I heard a voice say, “who’s there?” I considered answering, but I didn’t feel like I could give a clear picture of who I was and why I was there without using a lot of apologetic hand motions, so I waited for him to open the door.

“Hi,” I said as friendly as I could, knowing damn well I would have never answered the door if the roles were reversed. “So my friend and I are housesitting in the house, um, over there…around the block, and our backyard’s touch…yours and theirs…and I think their cat is stuck in your backyard.”

The man stood silently, his face slipping more and more into confusion, as he (most likely) awaited my explanation as to why any of this should matter to him.

“Sooooo,” I continued, “can I go into your backyard and see if the cat is back there?”

“Um, sure,” he said. I thanked him, then reported back to my mom in the receiver of the phone, explaining my EXACT location and the man’s appearance, giving her time to plan her rescue/revenge murder, should the need arise.

“Hold on!” the man said as I approached the gate to his backyard. He had already made his way outside by way of the house and was trying to get a leash on his dog so I could trespass freely. Thoughtful, I said to myself, knocking his murderer potential down to 78%.

I walked through the grass, over to the corner of the yard I’d been able to see from the other side of the wall. I called out to Tuffy and again heard the meow, this time distinctly higher than me. I let my eyes travel up a large, thin trunked tree, and there, about 30 feet up, was Tuffy, peering down at me with a look that said nothing short of, “it’s about damn time.”

I got an idea. I told the man I’d be right back, gave in to my mom’s kind offer to come help, then walked back out the side gate and around the block to my house.

Upon returning, I now had two reinforcements and the plastic container of food. But at this point the sun had made its descent below the horizon, making it hard to differentiate between Tuffy and a thick branch. So we all stood in the grass with our iPhone flashlights, calling out to this cat like it was a jumper on a ledge. My dad climbed up on top of the wall and began to shake the tree, hoping to at least jolt Tuffy up, and when that didn’t work, he started trying to lightly nudge him with a shovel.

“You’re okay,” we all said gently. Tuffy made a move to another branch and we cheered. At least he wasn’t stuck anymore. We continued to call him, but he stayed still. It was minute 40 by this point, and as our necks had just begun to acclimate to our constant looking up, we were met with something that immediately made us look down: sprinklers. Water began to shoot out in every direction, soaking my mom and I and stranding my dad on top of the wall.

“I’ll get those!” the man said, trying not to laugh.

After a few minutes, the sprinklers died down, and we all trudged across the damp lawn to look back up at the tree, where we found Tuffy, still sitting in the exact same spot.

“I think it might be time to call it,” my dad said. “He doesn’t appear to be stuck anymore and we might be scaring him more by all standing here watching. I say we head back and let him make his way down on his own time.”

Tuffy seemed to agree with this, as he began to shift almost immediately after my dad started climbing back down the wall. “Follow us!” I said as we walked out the gate, apologizing for the thousandth time to the man for essentially ruining his evening. Thankfully, he—and his wife who I met briefly when she came outside with a dog treat to try and coerce Tuffy—ended up being 0% murders and 100% great people, as they both wished us a good night.

When we made our way back around the block to our house, I could still see the couple shining flashlights up into the tree. Clearly they had become as invested as we were. I carried the plastic container of food back out to the bordering wall and shook it into the evening air like the most desperate tamobourinist ever.

Suddenly I heard an all too familiar meow, this time from behind me. I turned on my heel—which made a loud squeak, as my shoes were still soaked from the sprinklers—and found Tuffy making his triumphant march to the back door.

“YAYYY thank you!!” I shouted to a handful of parties including the neighboring couple, my parents, God and Tuffy himself. For now I would sleep easy, knowing that a) this cat was still alive b) it was no longer in a tree and c) it was (hopefully) slightly traumatized so that it wouldn’t return to the tree again (at least not while I was housesitting). My mom and I walked back into the house and I thanked her and my dad a thousand times over for coming to help. Then, as I’d been initially planning to do when I paused the movie, I went to the freezer to grab my pint of ice cream. Sure, the journey from my seat to the fridge had taken over an hour longer than I anticipated, but I’d finally made it, and now that all four cats were safely inside and 100% not dead, it made the ice cream all the more sweeter.


 

About the Author

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Kimberlee Koehn is a writer based out of Los Angeles, CA and is extremely passionate about telling stories and spreading positivity. When she’s not writing, you can often find her reading, hiking, watching sports, and most likely talking to herself.

You can find her at kimberleek.com


Want to submit your own terrible morning? Visit our submissions page to find out how. 

Chunky Smoothie Kind of Morning

Confession: I am a morning person. I keep my blinds open all night so I wake up to the sunshine instead of an alarm, and I look forward to getting up and drinking a cup (or 5) of coffee. I enjoy morning chats and I sing (badly) to old Britney Spears songs while getting ready. I’m THAT person.

On any given weekday, my morning routine looks about the same: get the coffee brewing, attempt to make myself look presentable, blend up a breakfast smoothie and hustle out the door.

THIS particular morning, everything seemed to be going fine—until it wasn’t.

The culprit behind the sudden turn of events? THE BLENDER.

Now, I’ve got a pretty badass blender, and it doesn’t usually give me any grief. Everyday I throw in a mixture of frozen fruit, almond milk, spinach, and protein powder, and out comes a delicious and healthy kickstart to my day.

Every. Day.

So I don’t know WTF the deal was on that morning. Maybe my freezer went all macho overnight and made the fruit too frozen? Maybe the sharp little dudes inside the blender decided to take the morning off? Whatever it was, MY SHIT WOULD NOT BLEND. More milk? Nope. Higher speed? Nice try. Stir with a wooden spoon between blending attempts? Adorable, but no.

Note: If you’re planning to stir your smoothie with a wooden spoon, be sure the blending has completely ceased before doing so. Otherwise the wooden spoon WILL chip and you WILL end up with unwelcome splinters inside your mouth.

After what felt like hours of struggle, I resigned to the fact that it would just have to be a chunky smoothie kind of morning. So, I dumped the contents of the blender into a mason jar and ran out the door, 10 minutes behind schedule. As I got in my car and started my hour-long trek to work, I let out a frustrated sigh and hoped the rough start to my morning was not indicative of how the rest of my day would go.

LOL. If only that were true.

I had to speed racer drive (sorry, Mom) in order to have any hope of getting to work on time, but my lane weaving and sharp turns proved too intense for my lid-less mason jar. That’s right folks, chunky green smoothie, all over my passenger seat. With colorful words spewing out of my mouth, I stopped at the next red light and searched for something to (sort of) clean up the mess. I settled on an old softball T-shirt (RIP), and begrudgingly used it to soak up my breakfast.

Note: Long work commutes make for a lot of time spent in my car, so it regularly serves the dual purpose of transportation and a second closet. This would prove useful…more than once…on this single morning alone.

Now hungry and thoroughly irritated, I reached for my sunglasses to shield my vampire eyes from the suddenly too bright sun. Spoiler alert: they weren’t in my purse.

Cue the mascara monster.

I already have severely sensitive eyes to begin with, so having to stare into direct sunlight my entire drive to work sent my non-waterproof mascara running down my face like Lauren Conrad’s tears in The Hills.

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Fueled by road rage and starvation, I arrived at work 2 minutes late looking like the very definition of a hot mess. And even after I wiped as much of the black streams of death off my face as possible, this hot mess only got messier, as I quickly realized that my sunglasses were not the only important item I left behind. Spoiler alert: I also forgot shoes.

Note: I love being barefoot, and it is not uncommon for me to drive that way (is that still against the law?) I usually set a pair of shoes next to my purse and grab them both as I’m walking out the door. Obviously, however, that did not happen on this particular day.

I laughed out loud in that frightening and completely unamused sort of way, then ravaged my car (closet) for something to put on my bare feet. My options were a pair of metal cleats or some bright red converse. I’m a diehard New York Giants fan and I was wearing blue, so I opted for the converse and pretended like I was channeling some sort of team spirit. I mean, at that point, why not make lemonade, right?

And even though I walked into the classroom of children as a brightly dressed disheveled mess, they all still smiled and greeted me with a lovely, “Good morning Miss Natalee!” and suddenly all was well again. Chunky smoothie kind of morning and all, they were happy to see me, and I was happy to see them.

At some point during the day I also spilled my coffee on my light wash jeans, but that happens on the daily so I won’t act like it made things any worse. The bright side of the morning? I totally pulled off the blue and red and even received some high fives from my fellow Giants fan coworkers. Go big blue!


 

About the Author

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Natalee Koehn is donut lover, dog worshipper and grad student pursuing a Masters Degree in Speech Language Pathology. You can often find her studying, hiking, watching football, or inquiring about tacos, all while soaking up as much sun as possible.


 

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Damsel in Distress


Monday morning.  President’s Day.  I SHOULD have off from work, but I don’t.

I step outside my apartment building around 8:30am and immediately feel the biting, piercing cold.  I cross over 1st Avenue and within seconds I hear a quiet yet commanding voice: “EXCUSE ME!!!!!!!!!!

I look to my right and there she is – a very old woman, sitting in her wheelchair outside of the senior center across the street from my apartment.  ”Can you give me a push?“  I look around and yep, I’m the only one there.  She is talking to me.

I walk over to this woman, who is tiny and wrinkly like a little shriveled up raisin, and am prepared to move her wheelchair slightly for her.  Maybe the sun was in her eyes and she wanted to have her back to it.  Maybe she wanted to face a different direction.  I don’t know.  As I place my hands on the wheelchair handles she asks me where I’m going.  I tell her I’m headed to the subway.

Perfect,“ she says.

Whoa, wait.  Perfect?  Does this little old lady expect me to push her three avenues and three blocks to my subway stop?  And then what happens?  She’s getting on the 6 train with me?!  Where exactly is she headed?  I don’t want to commit to this.  I immediately look at a man in a janitor-type uniform who is sweeping around the area for guidance. He shrugs.

HELP, let’s go – I’m FREEZING!!!!!!!!“ she screams at me.

IT IS WAY TOO EARLY FOR THIS SHIT.

It then immediately dawns on me that it’s totally strange this elderly woman is lounging outside on a freezing cold morning, unattended.  Is she a resident of this senior center and plotting her escape?  Am I her accomplice?  Even worse, is she some kind of scam artist?

I pictured me innocently wheeling this woman around the Upper East Side and then getting put in ‘cuffs for ‘Attempting to Steal an Old Person.’  And I assure you, I do not want an old person.  A puppy, maybe, but not an old person.  And ESPECIALLY not this one; she seems cranky.

I know the man with the broom has observed my encounter with Granny, so I call him over and explain to him that I don’t feel comfortable taking this random old lady for a joy ride, and that I don’t feel comfortable just leaving her, either.  She now changes her tune.  “I HAVE TO GO TO THE FOOT DOCTOR!”  she demands.  OK, enough of this.

I head towards the senior center and barge into the front door to find a woman sitting at the front desk, conversing with a man who appears to be an orderly of some sort.  I begin to explain my situation.

Hi, so there’s a woman outside in her wheelchair –-”

Yep, Francis.”  The woman at the desk interrupts me.

OK well she is asking me to take her somewhere in her wheelchair and I felt bad just leaving her –

Yes, I know.  She does this every day.  She actually can walk you know, she just doesn’t want to.  She’s fine, don’t worry about her.

(WELL I HAPPEN TO HAVE A GOOD CONSCIENCE SO SUE ME)

Uh, okay.  It’s also about 15 degrees out and she said she’s freezing, so…

The woman turns to the orderly and says, “Bring her back in here, will ya?”  He obliges and walks me out, giving me the back story on my friend Francis.  “She’s 100, you know.  She refuses to walk but she can.  She also always tries to get random people on the street to take her somewhere.

Yes, I gathered that.  So as Francis was getting wheeled back inside, I said goodbye to my new friends and continued my walk to the train – all while thinking to myself, I hope I drop dead before getting to that point in my life.

And for added measure, I made it to my subway stop (still frazzled from earlier events) to find a ton of signs everywhere:  ”NO LOCAL DOWNTOWN TRAINS TODAY. PLEASE WALK TO 59th STREET.“  (Which is another 10 blocks away).

So I took a cab, and entered a desolate, deserted work building – because every other company was off today.


About the Author

Allison A

Allison is a 30-something New Yorker who blogs over at (her initials/nickname; not to be confused with Alcoholics Anonymous) about dating/relationships, women’s issues, pop culture and the hilarious shenanigans she often gets herself into. When she isn’t writing she’s working at her day job in digital media/advertising, photographing EVERYTHING and thinking about how she can become friends with Beyoncé.

You can find her on Twitter, Instagram, and her blog.


 

Want to submit your own terrible morning? Visit our submissions page to find out how. 

Gravel in the Knees, Garbage in the Air

This morning I woke up 30 minutes late.

30 minutes.

That’s an entire episode of Friends. An entire high school lunch period. An entire bake time of a thin chicken breast. Kids could have safely swam after eating in the time I slept past my alarm. Traffic on a downtown freeway could have cleared up after a small roadside collision.

You’d think I would have noticed. That my body would have jolted awake to say, “hey! It seems like we should be up by now! The sun is touching us, that’s a bad sign! We haven’t done our morning pee yet; our bladder is still full! We’re so hungry! We’re too rested! We’re late! We’re late! We’re late!” But alas, I rolled over casually, as if I was on vacation or had successfully Ferris Bueller-ed my way out of a math test.

I wonder what time it is, I thought to myself, sure I was going to find a wee hour on the clock. I wiped my eyes, clicked the power button on my phone and the numbers shouted up at me: it’s 6:30, bitch!

Suddenly, everything went to shit.

I jumped out of bed—my hair sticking up straight and one eye still half shut. I tried to tell myself I didn’t have to make the bed, that we could go one day without making the bed, but my OCD thought not.

I don’t have time to make the bed.

I can’t leave without making the bed!

But I don’t have time to make the bed.

I made the bed.

In the bathroom, I brushed my teeth for far less time than a dentist would recommend, then washed my face so rough I coated my hairline in Proactiv solution. I ran to my closet, grabbed the first pair of pants I saw—which I’d soon discover were the still rank pants I worked out in the day before—pulled the first shirt I could reach off of a hanger and stuck my arms through a jacket I found hanging on a doorknob. None of these matched, but I forced myself to count non-nakedness as the morning’s first win.

I scraped foundation over my face with my probably should have been cleaned yesterday makeup brush, and then wiped mascara into my eyelashes. At first glance, I was relatively impressed with my efforts. I didn’t appear to look drunk, hungover, or My Boyfriend Did My Makeup ­tutorial-ed. But then I found mascara all down the side of my hand, deodorant on the bottom of my shirt and a big, uncovered pimple just under my chin.

My brain: Just breathe, it’s going to be alright.

My watch: It’s 6:45, bitch!

I flipped off the bathroom light and ran downstairs.

I had planned for a nice, slow breakfast. The night before I’d pulled out a few things to try a Pinterest recipe said to be both healthy and delicious. I even thought about making a double batch to share with my roommates. Night me is always so thoughtful…

Meanwhile, morning me shoved two pieces of bread in the toaster. It would be burnt wheat bread for me, and my roommates would have to fend for themselves.

I scraped together a sandwich. This will have to be enough, I said to my morning self. She believed it, too. She understood the time crunch. My lingering lunch self however, threw up middle fingers. She was already starving.

The toaster popped. I pulled the blackened bread out, then buttered and honeyed them up. I wrapped both pieces in a paper towel, stuck my sandwich in my lunch bag, filled up a Nalgene bottle with water and a coffee cup with some chocolate milk. I put a granola bar in my purse, slid my sunglasses over my eyes, then walked out the door, arms full, and threw everything into the front seat of my car.

As if on cue, chocolate milk began to spill on my seat, leaving a dark brown stain in the grey cloth. I nodded my head as if to say, “seems about right,” then I got in the driver’s seat, peeled out of the driveway and down the street towards work. Halfway there, I ran over a trash bag and it hooked itself to the underside of my car. Glass and plastic began to shoot out from under me, causing cars to flash their lights, honk and yell.

“Why are you doing this?!” they asked with darting eyes, as if my morning routine always consisted of towing a bag of hazardous garbage behind my Saturn Ion. I tried to keep my eyes on the road ahead, knowing full well I was leaving a Mario Kart obstacle-esque street behind me, desperately hoping I could find a place to pull over in the middle of morning traffic.

By the time I found a driveway and ignored the bright red sign that probably said, “definitely no stopping here, not even if your spewing glass shards at neighboring cars,” my Saturn smelled as melty as a church sanctuary at the end of a candlelight Christmas Eve service. I squatted down on the sidewalk, then kneeled, then crawled halfway underneath my car to retrieve the melted heavy weight trash bag—which was now completely empty—and threw it on the side of the road, adding littering to my morning’s list of sins.

When I finally got to work, I was 15 minutes late, had gravel in my knees and a crazed look in my eye.

“Good morning,” a coworker said. I smiled, completely disagreeing, and made my way to my desk.

No, it wasn’t a good morning, I said to myself as I opened a comfort snack I brought for my lunch self, and how dare you say otherwise. I was dead set on proving them wrong, but then, as I started to decompress, that thing happened. The thing where after you’ve made it through something non-life threatening, grand-scheme meaningless, yet undoubtedly and outrageously shitty, you lean back in your chair and just laugh. So instead, I held my cup of chocolate milk up to the universe in a cheers. Because no, it wasn’t a good morning, but I suppose it could still be a good day, and an even better story.


About the Author

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Kimberlee Koehn is a writer based out of Los Angeles, CA and is extremely passionate about telling stories and spreading positivity. When she’s not writing, you can often find her reading, hiking, watching sports, and most likely talking to herself.

You can find her at kimberleek.com


 

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