I’m not a morning person. As in, waking up for me is like emerging from a heavy coma. I envy morning people, they walk in the light. Their Saturday mornings seem happy places, filled with productive hours and morning papers; their Mondays a time to exchange Disney anecdotes about their light-filled weekends. Barf.
I, on the other hand, exist in the shadows and come Monday morning, am like Darth Vader with an atomic wedgie. This morning, I arose like a zombie fresh from the grave, arms akimbo. I fought the fight of the alarm clock and lost, as I always do. Spent five minutes negotiating with myself as to whether I could chuck a sickie (the answer came back, no); then zombie-walked myself into the wall / bathroom / work.
In morning mode, I’m a pastey version of The Incredible Hulk (or as the French say, l’incroyable hulk); my communication a series of grunts which could also double as morse code for bears. Brows sit low over wolflike eyes as I skulk into work, hoping to go unnoticed. Unfortunately, I remain stubbornly visible and the sing-song chorus of “morning!” is my cue to smile (as if my undies aren’t riding up my proverbial ass). It’s all I can do not to declare war with a return wedgie and shout, “cram it up your cram hole!”
Now is probably a good time to mention that while I may be a (relatively) young woman, at heart, I’m a curmudgeonly old coot whose bones ache. He barks at idiots that step on his toes, doesn’t like reaching first base with strangers on the bus, and hates chit-chat. He says things like, “you people make my ass twitch” and “that makes my ovaries want to commit suicide” because yes, he’s somewhat gender-rebellious.
There’s no arguing with him because he’s old and set in his ways. He paid his dues and if he wants to wear underwear up to his teeth, he bloody-well will. I’m fond of the codger, but sometimes feel that he hijacked my youth. When the other kids were getting drunk and living out their rebellions, I was doing homework and arguing the philosophies of life.
Ultimately, there are things you can change about yourself, and others you just have to wear, like an atomic wedgie only a Death Star can produce. The coot and his incarnations come under the skid mark that no bleach can effect. Nothing for it but to ride the geriatric wave.