Mornings. Blech.
Anonymous and I have been sharing our morning issues. Sharing, of course, is a notoriously flexible term, and, well, it's kinda led to stealing. Not too fine a point on it. Here follows Anon's scientifically precise dissection of the problem, and its relationship to diet issues*. With annotations to reflect my own, fascinating experience.
Oh, and sorry for the brightbright blue; Blogger is having colour issues. Never mind.
It goes like this:
* Wake up
* Adjust to fact is morning, and i can't get away from it
* Get in bath (1)
* Adjust to fact that bath is for bathing, not warm, substitute bed for further snoozing (2)
* Get into clothes (3)
* Adjust to fact that i've spent so long snoozing in the bath that i don't have time to make nice breakfast (4)
* Rush to work, hungry and feeling kak and resentful that am not still snoozing. Reach desk. Collapse in heap. (5)
* Adjust to fact that despite all my wondrous early-morning effort, it's NOT time to go for a lie-down yet (6)
* Pick up greasy canteen food to satisfy rumbling stomach (7)
* Ease into the day (8)
Scroobious personalisations:
(1) Unless I have cunningly bathed previous night, and can convince self am still clean and fresh, thus earning a precious extra 20 minutes in bed. Not that I actually take 20 minutes to clean myself. But I can pretend I do.
(2) Well, not in present flat, no, because bath takes v long to fill, and temperature is unreliable. So its showers only (or not at all) in the morning rush. Probably a good thing for punctuality, though, since there was definite bed/bath functionality confusion in previous abode.
(3) Discover that clothes I had planned to wear are in laundry/mysteriously stained since last sight/mysteriously tighter since last wearing. Panic. Try to find something, anything, that is approximately clean, approximately crumple-free and still lets me breathe. Curse wardrobe. Curse thighs.
(4) Plan to pick up relatively healthful pret pot with granola and berries.
(5) Ask to be helped out of clothes. Well, that's what happened this morning, anyway. My coat zipper was stuck and I actually had to climb out of it. No, I'm not the office tart - at least not first thing in the morning**.
(6) Wonder why I haven't figured out yet where the first aid room is, and whether anyone would notice if I snuck off for a quiet nap.
(7) Devour bacon sarmie and Coke I picked up on the way in, from cafe wot is much closer than Pret. (No canteen.) Vow to eschew all saturated fats for, oh, at least an hour.
(8) This involves wabbing, as facilitated by gentle exploration of inbox, news headlines and, of course, my favourite blogs. This is the point at which I get distracted from my morning issues by discovering that: shoppers really are crazy***; people pay far too much attention to the sex lives of those bloody royals; and I may have wardrobe issues, but it could be so much worse****.
___
* Again with the food, and the relationships. Bloody impossible to get away from. Sorry.
** That's another story entirely.
*** Although I like this argument that rioting is the only sane response to Ikea customer disservice.
**** I like Kirsten Dunst, truly I do. I have a special thing for Bring It On, even if all that exposure of her teenage waist did send me straight to three hours of gym. But she's not doing herself any favours, is she?
Scroobious personalisations:
(1) Unless I have cunningly bathed previous night, and can convince self am still clean and fresh, thus earning a precious extra 20 minutes in bed. Not that I actually take 20 minutes to clean myself. But I can pretend I do.
(2) Well, not in present flat, no, because bath takes v long to fill, and temperature is unreliable. So its showers only (or not at all) in the morning rush. Probably a good thing for punctuality, though, since there was definite bed/bath functionality confusion in previous abode.
(3) Discover that clothes I had planned to wear are in laundry/mysteriously stained since last sight/mysteriously tighter since last wearing. Panic. Try to find something, anything, that is approximately clean, approximately crumple-free and still lets me breathe. Curse wardrobe. Curse thighs.
(4) Plan to pick up relatively healthful pret pot with granola and berries.
(5) Ask to be helped out of clothes. Well, that's what happened this morning, anyway. My coat zipper was stuck and I actually had to climb out of it. No, I'm not the office tart - at least not first thing in the morning**.
(6) Wonder why I haven't figured out yet where the first aid room is, and whether anyone would notice if I snuck off for a quiet nap.
(7) Devour bacon sarmie and Coke I picked up on the way in, from cafe wot is much closer than Pret. (No canteen.) Vow to eschew all saturated fats for, oh, at least an hour.
(8) This involves wabbing, as facilitated by gentle exploration of inbox, news headlines and, of course, my favourite blogs. This is the point at which I get distracted from my morning issues by discovering that: shoppers really are crazy***; people pay far too much attention to the sex lives of those bloody royals; and I may have wardrobe issues, but it could be so much worse****.
___
* Again with the food, and the relationships. Bloody impossible to get away from. Sorry.
** That's another story entirely.
*** Although I like this argument that rioting is the only sane response to Ikea customer disservice.
**** I like Kirsten Dunst, truly I do. I have a special thing for Bring It On, even if all that exposure of her teenage waist did send me straight to three hours of gym. But she's not doing herself any favours, is she?
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