The alarm goes off this morning (actually, three alarms go off). I turn it off but in the process I notice how really comfy my pillow is. An hour later Moira visits, griping in her usual charming/annoying/make-me-wanna-punt-you-across-the-room way. In twenty minutes I’m supposed to be at the office, which is twelve miles away. And I’m still in bed.
Bugger. Damn damn and blast it all.
After rocketing around the house I manage to put in my eyes and on my clothes while still brushing my teeth, feeding the cat and remembering to grab both my cellphone and my lunch. My outfit even matches and isn’t composed of dirty clothes rapidly swiped off the growing piles in the bedroom. Pat the cat and rattle down the stairs to the car.
Traffic? In my favor for a change. It’s almost eerie how well it’s moving. Ah, that’s right. It’s a “holiday.” Some people actually have the day off. Outstanding.
7:07 AM I roll into the office. Seven minutes late isn’t late at all, quite frankly. Thirty minutes from bed to desk. I often can’t do that well when I work at home. This is one of those many things which just because I can do it I don’t believe I should. But if I keep proving to myself that it’s very possible I’m likely to start making a habit of it.
Regardless, racing around your house on an adrenaline buzz is no way to start a week. Oy…