It’s
early in the morning and I’m doing my usual; the alarm goes off, I hit snooze,
and manage to go back to sleep for five minutes. Why is it, I always wonder, that I cannot
easily fall asleep at night, and yet, drifting back to never-never land within
5 seconds is doable at 5:45 am? In any
case, I smack that snooze button three more times before I finally give it up,
get up, and stumble into the bathroom.
As
I’m doing my thing, I remember with a pleasant start that it’s Saturday morning,
and there is absolutely no reason for me to be sitting on the throne when I
could still be slumbering away. Almost
as quickly as I have this thought, I recall that I’d promised my next-door
neighbor and somewhat friend Chasity that I’d go for a run with her, followed
by a visit to Starbucks and a foray to the local farmers’ market. It seemed like a decent idea the previous
night while sharing a bottle of good Zinfandel and binge-watching “Game of
Thrones”; now, not so much.
I
wonder if I could plead having the flu to Chasity and beg off this insanity of
venturing out of my condo at such an indecent hour. I’m
pretty sure she’d be understanding, and it wouldn’t change how she felt about
me, but; I know she’s a Christian, and even though I don’t hold to organized
religion, I can’t out and out lie to someone who does. Sighing, I finish up my business and head
towards the kitchen, offering a silent prayer to the God of Coffee that I’d
preset the Keurig machine to turn on at 5:30 am because, you know, in this age
of instant gratification, having to wait 60 seconds for the water to heat up can
be pure torture.
Glory! It’s on!
Crap! There’s nothing in the reservoir. Muttering out loud that it’s unfair that I’m
always the one who has to put water in the stupid thing, I stop and realize I’m
bitching at myself. The object of my
complaining used to be my ex-husband, but of course, ex means ex, as in gone
from my life, kaput. Not a bad trade, considering;
needing to do piddly chores vs. being married to him. Still even after two years, old habits die a
slow, lingering death.
My
ancient cat wanders into the kitchen and gives me his version of stink eye. “What’s up with you, Grouchy Mouse?” I
say. He’s apparently not pleased with
being referred to as a small rodent, nor does he seem to wish to listen to me
rant at his ex-dad, so he turns to stalk away, lifting and twitching his plumed
tail as he goes. That’s when I notice
the probable reason for his aggravation; a huge piece of poop stuck to his
furry behind. With practiced movement, I
rip a wad of paper towels from the roll on the counter, bend down to grab him
by the scruff of his neck, pick him up, swipe his poopy butt, deposit him back
down on the floor before he can bite me while simultaneously thinking, “I
forgot to get his butt shaved. Again”.
My
day is off to a fabulous start.
I
head back to the bathroom to deposit the smelly bundle of Bounty into the
toilet. As I flush it down, I catch a glimpse
of the reflection in the mirror and am confused for a second. My grandmother is looking back at me, just as
perplexed to be there as I am to see her.
“Why is she wearing my ratty ‘No Crisis Before Its Time’ tee
shirt?” I ask myself stupidly. I
blink, and she’s gone; it’s only me reflected in the mirror, still half bent
over with my hand on the back side of the toilet.
And
just like that, I am old.
