Ugh. Double ugh. Monday mornings. Just thinking about it makes me cringe. The weekends are never long enough anymore, are they?
Sadly, I hear my alarm start to wail. I hate that sound. I hit the snooze button knowing I give myself at least fifteen minutes of hide-and-seek time before I have to admit it is time to get out of bed.
Oh, but something is strange. It is very quiet. I also wake up to music every morning and there is no music today. I glance at my phone and realize I have overslept for an hour and a half. Shit, shit, double shit. I never do this.
You have never seen a grown woman jump out of bed so fast. Although I work remotely from a home office, I never allow myself to arrive at my desk anytime I please. I am a schedule-aholic and suddenly move like a bat out of Hades. I grab my jeans hung conveniently over my vanity chair, stub my toe, and scream like a banshee.
And no, to answer your obvious question, I also never allow myself to start my day at my desk in my pajamas. OK, so judge me. I am an anal old idiot drowned by ancient rhetoric.
I scramble to get into my jeans without losing my balance mumbling obscenities under my breath the entire time. Although Mondays just suck, I am actually impressed with myself. I did this in record time today. Yay me! What a trooper.
I whisk my way from one end of the house to the other and decide that coffee will have to wait for a few minutes. I fall into my desk chair, turn on my monitors, and move my mouse knowing I am still going to be about six minutes late.
And then it happens. My system wakes up and the screen tells me it is 7:06 AM on Sunday – yes, you read that right. Sunday. You bleeping blippity bleep mother fork truck son of a biscuit maker a**wipe.
I not only dang near broke my toe, but I delayed coffee for this. It is a good thing I live alone because someone other than me should take the blame. That’s only fair, right? After all, why was a 5:30 AM alarm activated on a Sunday? And how many bloody times did I hit that snooze button?
OK, so there is no chance of reclaiming my Sunday morning sleep fest. Zero. Zilch. I am in a repugnantly demented rage. The only good thing about this event is that I am 99.9% certain it will never happen again. Ah, the pathetic pitfalls of a hope-indoctrinated Type-A overachiever.
Now, if it was a beautiful sun-filled Sunday morning, I would don my best sneakers and go on a glorious jaunt through the park to commiserate with the butterflies. But it is cold, rainy, and one of the dreariest days in April history.
Time for one of my delicious, dietary-challenging chorizo, egg, and cheese omelets. Don’t you love the redeeming value of good food? Ah, but that is fodder for yet another rant.
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