The following is a draft I began over a year ago while I was still employed.  I sadly forgot about it until I recently stumbled upon it again while going through all of the various writing projects languishing in digital limbo.  I think it speaks for itself.  It’s one of those regrettable mornings I think we all have at some time or another.

Have you ever had one of those mornings?  You know the kind: it spirals downward and falls apart, ultimately making you late, and it only gets worse the more you try to get back on track.  Hasn’t everyone had at least one of those mornings?

That’s how my Monday started.  Monday!  I should have expected it.

The alarm goes off at 4:30 as it does every weekday morning.  The intention is to get my tired butt out of bed and be at the gym by 5:00.  This works well for me, as I don’t have much control over the rest of my day so planning to go to the gym any other time is fruitless.  It simply won’t happen.  Events conspire to make it so.  But back to my story…

I’m snug under the covers sleeping on my side.  Kazon is happily unconscious under the covers with me curled up against my frame.  Grendel is snuggly asleep on top of the covers behind my knees.  Loki is sleeping at the bottom of the bed pinned happily on the side of my legs just opposite Grendel.  With the three of them in these positions, I’m essentially immobile unless I wish to upset the balance of nature.  When the alarm sounds, I quickly move to turn it off and make just enough of a ruckus to send all three cats fleeing in separate directions.

Free of obstacles, I lean over and manipulate the appropriate controls to silence the clock.  Blurry focus through sleepy eyes reveals it is in fact 4:30.  Time to get up, right?

The next time I open my eyes, it’s 6:45 AM.  I can see disturbing traces of morning light filtering through the blinds and immediately realize it’s not completely dark as it should be.  I’m also aware that the three kids are right back in their respective positions.

6:45 AM!  I’m so startled by the loss of time that I leap from bed and send three felines soaring through the air as they attempt to escape the crazy man who replaced Daddy.

I run to the bathroom and start brushing my teeth as I prepare to shower and shave.  Already my mind is racing through what is necessary to get out the door and to the office as quickly as possible.  Many accoutrements of my morning routine become tornadic dances of veritable mayhem.

I finish brushing my teeth only after the process is extended by all the attention I had to shower upon The Kids.  They need their morning fix.  Somehow, 15 minutes goes by before my mouth feels clean and all of the cats are tended to.  That’s not a good sign.  I shave quickly, carefully avoiding unnecessary wounds and haphazard cutting, and realize I’ve lost yet another 10 minutes.  The morning is going downhill rapidly.

I give The Kids fresh food and water before jumping into the shower.  I can get that done in 10 minutes, no more.  After dousing myself in the wet spray, I grab the shampoo bottle at the same time I remember I used the last of it the day before.  Now in a snit that I had not replaced it then, and only somewhat aware of the enjoyable yet hysterical laughter pouring out of me (the kind that often accompanies such moments), I climb out of the shower and drip large amounts of water all over the bathroom as I rush to grab another bottle of shampoo from the cabinets.  Then I leap back in the tub.  Rapid lathering, rinsing, and repeating follow, and it is at that moment I grab the liquid soap and luffa.  I upend the bottle and squeeze.  This results in a grotesque sound and only a few drops of soap that explode out of the bottle.  It too is empty.  With a hat of foamy hair and racing stripes of lather beginning to drop down my body, again I fly out of the shower and back to the cabinet to retrieve more soap, and then it’s back to the shower with even more suspicious laughter stemming from the realization that I am only becoming later and later as I try harder and harder to hurry.

Imagine my horrific offense when my shower is complete and I realize 15 minutes have passed.  With hurried toweling as I rummage through drawers to get deodorant and other necessary items, I’m finally dry and begin putting myself together.  Anti-smelly in place and my body sufficiently moisturized, I trip over Grendel as I run to the bedroom to get dressed.  I’m quite certain by then everyone in the city of Dallas hears my self-deprecating cackle.  If I don’t laugh about it, I’ll just get mad and much stressed.

I pick myself up off the floor while petting Grendel to let him know it’s okay that he tripped me, and then I open the closet doors to face yet another delay: those moments of indecision wherein one stares blankly at huge amounts of clothing because one is unable to compile a reasonable ensemble.  My hands fumble with this pair of slacks and that shirt only to realize they don’t go together at all.  One goes back and a replacement is withdrawn, and then the cycle repeats several times, as I grow angrier at my own hesitancy.

With shirt, shoes, socks, and slacks finally and properly matched, I begin throwing on clothes.  That’s when the button snaps off my pants.  I’m certain it was my fault because I am in a hurry and undoubtedly pulled, pushed, or otherwise manhandled them with too much fervor.

I’ll finish it by summarizing with this: I did eventually get out of the house, but I forgot my wallet and cash, went home and retrieved those, got to Starbucks before realizing I also forgot my work keys and security badge, purchased my coffee before returning home yet again, spilled my coffee in the car (luckily not on me, though), and was finally on the road to work nearly an hour after I should have already been there.  It wasn’t until I got to the office that I realized I’d forgotten some files I took home to work on the night before.  At that point, I gave up and went home because I needed the files, and I worked the rest of the day from there because I felt it was unsafe to do anything else.