A Morning in the Life of Florence Knitingale

You say "disorganized whackjob" like it's a BAD thing

Feel self being pulled from sleep at crap o’clock in the morning; resist and dig deeply into covers. Pretend to believe that am not awakening.

Break out in sweat from nest of covers. Fling off covers.

Adjust position to find cooler spot. Run into husband’s knee and elbow. Contemplate what position husband could possibly be in that would place both knee and elbow on this side of bed.

Admit defeat, climb out of bed.

Put on workout clothes. Acknowledge that “workout clothes” may be too grandiose a term for what is essentially a pair of men’s boxers and a t-shirt.

Brush teeth in dark, so as not to awaken husband with bathroom light.

Spit toothpaste on hand. Curse quietly.

Stagger into workout room.

Turn on workout room TV to watch news.

Glare at and consider making obscene gesture towards aggressively perky news anchorwoman. Remind self that am adult woman, above such childlike behaviors. Have good laugh at own joke, flip off anchorwoman.

Find resistance band, reminding self that “resistance” does not refer to willingness to use it. Work biceps, triceps, and crankiness.

Settle on recumbent exercise bike with thrift store sweater to unravel. Consider that day may be looking up.

Finish workout approximately one hour later, having turned into giant sweaty ball with yarn stuck to fingers.

Go downstairs to feed cats and clean litterbox.

Argue with cat:

...for at least 100th time about insistence on using litterbox at exact moment it is being cleaned, even if necessary to run across house to do so.

Consider that it may be a bit crazy to argue with cat. Decide it is likely too late to ward off craziness and besides, cat is losing argument.

Return upstairs, take shower and wash hair. Note with equal amounts of astonishment and smugness that have not lacerated legs or armpits with razor.

Dry hair.

Emerge from bedroom to find husband awake (possibly something to do with hair drying procedure)

Cuddle and chat with husband in annoying newlywed fashion. Vow not to lose track of time.

Lose track of time.

Leap away from husband as if scalded, run to closet for clothes.

Grab jeans, remember that Monday is Knit for Life and am not allowed to wear jeans to Knit for Life.

Grab slightly dressy, light tan pants from hanger. Begin to dress; notice huge hanger marks on knees of pants. No time to iron.

Toss pants in ironing pile (possibly a misnomer, as the term “ironing pile” suggests that someone might, at some point, actually iron the items in it)

Find olive-y corduroy pants that have not worn in awhile, put pants on.

Notice that, inexplicably, pants have become too short. Do not remember recent growth spurt; however, pants will only be long enough if buttoned around middle of butt. Decide to forego corduroy pants.

Pull out khaki pants. Put them on. Note that length is correct. Run towards dresser for shirt; catch sight of self in mirror and notice that pants make bottom appear to be approximately six axe-handles across in width. Cannot believe have not noticed this before. Discard evil pants immediately in Goodwill pile. Have moment of guilt, at inflicting giant-bottom-inducing pants on other helpless woman. Do not have time for full-on angst. Make mental note to angst more fully when not in hurry.

Desperate now, pull out last option: different pair of khaki pants with alarmingly low rise, purchased when believing self to be younger and hipper than realistic evidence would suggest. Out of time and options—put on pants (to extent that they can be said to be “on”. )

Grab white, racer-back tank out of dresser.

Go to bra drawer to find racer-back bra.

Dig in bra drawer.

Swear.

Dig more deeply in bra drawer.

Swear more loudly.

Dump bra drawer on floor. Spot wayward bra on top of socks in next drawer down.

Stuff bras back in drawer, stuff self in bra.

Observe that both breasts should probably be in bra for best sartorial effect.

Shove wandering mammary back into bra.

Grab denim blazer in hope of covering accidental glimpses of top of tushie due to low-rise pants/41-year-old tushie combination.

Tell husband good-bye, head for stairs.

Consider odds of going downstairs with: backpack stuffed with textbooks, wheeled and handled knitting bag stuffed with knitting, cell phone, water bottle, and interchangeable knitting needle set but without tumbling down steps to face plant on hardwood floor.

Decide do not like odds, ask husband to help.

Arrive safely at bottom of stairs. Grab purse. Stuff phone in purse. Realize that will not be home for over 13 hours, but have no food.

Hunt for food to take.

Do not, strangely, find any completely prepared, nutritious, portable meals waiting to be grabbed.

Leave house with purse over arm, water bottle over arm, knitting bag handle in left hand, backpack handle in right hand, keys wedged under knitting bag handle, knitting needle set tucked under arm, top of bag containing 1 ½ handfuls of animal crackers in between teeth.

Bad, right? But here's the worst part: I'm a MORNING PERSON. I swear. Imagine how much fun a late night with Ms. Knitingale might be.