One of the many little tasks with which I fill up my mornings is the brewing of a large cup of tea. I always believe I will have time to drink this in a civilized fashion, perhaps while reading the paper and glancing fondly over at my beloved Mr. K. Then I have a good laugh and go dump the water out of the travel mug that's been soaking overnight in the sink because I didn't get to the civilized and fond glances thing yesterday, either (in my defense, neither did Mr. K, so I would have had to glance fondly at the cat who tends to think I'm weird when I do that). I had arranged my stuff for work neatly on the counter to take with me (read: I had tossed my knitting bag on the counter in such a way that the yarn slopped out of it and got covered in bread crumbs from Mr. K's sandwich, forgot my cell phone and had to make two trips upstairs--one to forget what I wanted, and one to get the cell phone--lovingly set the new red purse on the chair where nothing bad could happen to it, and tipped my water bottle onto the hardwood while swearing like a trucker and trying to mop it up by sliding a dishtowel around with my foot. In other words, and average morning.) and I was about to pour the tea into the mug. Which was when I had my first moment of realization:
I was wearing brand new, white, brushed cotton scrub pants. Brand new. Soft and comfy, with a drawstring waist. Carefully matched with a white long-sleeved tee, and a scrub top in blues and greens and white. Lots and lots of white.
And a big travel mug of tea. Which has a lid with a lip on it to help prevent spillage and all...but c'mon. Is there a more tempting invitation to the universe than new white scrub pants and a big mug of tea in the car on the way to work with no time to go home and change? I think not. Which is when I had my second moment of realization: I could change the outcome of this.
I put my stuff neatly in the car (read: tossed it in randomly and was somehow surprised later to find grapes from my lunchbag under the seat planning a future in the raisin business), went back, and dug a dishtowel out of the drawer. I then got in the car, laid the dishtowel across my lap, and drove to work and drank my tea, thus guaranteeing that nothing would spill. I could have shaken it like a tamborine and nothing would have spilled, because the universe doesn't find it amusing in the least to mess with the prepared. It ruins everything. Now, if I'd not brought the towel, I'd have dropped the entire cup in my lap, the lid would have popped off, and I would have spent the whole day working with a light tan crotch and lap. Such are the vagaries of fate. When I got to work, that was when I had the third and last moment of realization:
I was sitting in my car, wearing what might as well be jammies and a bib, drinking from a tippy cup. I had come full circle.
When I looked around, I merely confirmed my suspicions--behind the seat was a bag of hard candy, to keep me from becoming cranky and whiny on long car trips. I had a shiny red purse, one shoe was untied, my hair needed to be brushed, and the cd I was listening to was one I've listened to so often that it's a good thing I don't carpool with anyone because they'd kill me. The evidence is clear. I've become 2 years old again. Only now I can drive and not nearly as many people can tell me no.