Sunday, February 2, 2014

Morning Intercourse

I’m one of the millions of people who had to look for a new job at an age when it’s not easy to find one. Without going into the depressing (dismal, dispiriting, bleak) details, the end result is that I am now employed (yay me), just grossly under employed (sigh…fuckin’ a).



Embarrassingly, brutally, perniciously under employed. (But I'm not bitter).

I’ve been on the job for a few months now and all is going well. Like it or not, (NOT) I’m one of those people with a strong work ethic. It takes more than an Act of God to keep me at home. Lately something insidious has crept into my mornings…

I just don’t want to get up.

The alarm goes off and my entire being objects. I don’t want to get out of bed. My sweet, warm, comfy, fit for a queen-sized bed. I hit snooze, and I think, ‘Not today. I just can’t do it today.’ A series of snooze bar slaps commences as the minutes roll by. I’m surprised I haven’t slapped the snooze right out of the damned clock by now.

Finally and with great effort, I sit up. Let the mental negotiations begin.

My inner adult, accustomed to the conniption, tranquilly encourages me. ‘Whether you stay or go, the dogs still have to go out. Take them out and then we’ll see how you feel when you’re done.’

My pissy, cry baby, inner child blows out a hurricane sized sigh. Shoulders slouched, head hanging low, I take the dogs out. Once I’m back inside I feed the dogs and plop on the couch. My inner bratapuss is working up to a tantrum. ‘Nope, nuh-uh. Don't feel any better. I just can’t do it. I can’t go to work today.’

The smooth soothing voice of my inner adult continues unphased by the outburst: ‘Wouldn't an extra large jug of coffee be nice? Go have coffee and eat some oatmeal. Then we’ll see if you can go to work.’

‘Nooooooo! I don’t want to!' I take a second to reconsider. Shit. I do have to eat. Being a drama queen, I melt from the couch to the floor and slowly work my way into a standing position. 'Stupid responsibilities.’ I mumble as I stomp my feet and slowly head into the kitchen.

At the table, suggested items consumed, I rest my head in my hands and whimper, ‘Nada. Still feel the same. I'm not going. I don’t have the strength to go in today.’

The composed and shrewd inner adult adds a sprinkle of ego stroking to the discussion. ‘And deny your co-workers the privilege of your condescending genius? I think not. Go do your hair. If it turns out like Margaret Thatcher, you can go back to bed. If it turns out like Meryl Streep as Margaret Thatcher, then you will go to work.’

I put a melodramatic hand to my forehead and whine, ‘Ahhhhhh! My hair is soooo stupid! But my condescension is inspired…’ I scuff my feet as I head off to the bathroom to do my hair.

When my hair is done I decide I can live with it. I always can. But it’s not a ‘Meryl Streep’ doo. It’s more of a Barbara Walters don’t. Ick.

I start to veneer my face as I think about some new sarcastic responses. Once makeup is applied there is no going back to bed. My inner adult has won. I get dressed and go to work.

During the drive to work, my inner adult considers the possibility of multiple personality disorder. My inner adolescent reviews the morning events and smiles. ‘Well played inner adult. Well played. You won that one, but there’s always tomorrow! Mwahahaha!’

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A writer exercising the writing muscle.