March 28, 2011 
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.
Oh so funny! Never stop writing.
Crumbsies, thanks much Better Than.
That ass twitch line is from “French Kiss”, right? If I were into girls, I would happily wear the pant suit to a commitment ceremony with Meg Ryan.
Ah bless your movie knowledge, yes ’tis! My favourite line from that movie (love Kevin Kline’s reaction, reckon it was real).
Meanwhile, major ‘pant suit’ cracks. Longevity hilare.
Here, here! I’ve been holding on to a variation on Larry David since I was roughly 19 years old.
Misanthropic.
That’s the word of the day. I am what I is.
You are hilare.