There are certain routines that annoying people establish which help them to be more efficient at life. One of those things is setting out their clothes the night before work. I imagine that they wake up refreshed, make coffee and breakfast, check their calendar for the day’s appointments, and cruise to work in peace. I prefer a different method. I lay in bed 10-15 minutes after I should be up and mentally go through my entire closet to decide what I feel like wearing. I can’t determine the night before who I will be the next day. Some days I’m feeling particularly ambitious and I’ll get up and search my belongings. Am I dressy, casual, girly, tough today? Heels, sandals, boots?
Couple this system of inefficiency with the fact that living in Florida, you have to be prepared. You’ve got to be ready for a coldless winter and 3 random days of chill in March. You’ve got to be ready for a cold morning and blazing hot midday sun. You’ve got to be ready for sunshine and rain occurring simultaneously. I’ve lived in Florida my whole life. I know this. And yet. This is what happened.
I woke up bleary-eyed. I always wake up bleary-eyed. Up until recently, I used to bound out of bed at 6:30am, alarm clock or no alarm clock. My internal clock was a well-oiled machine. I have a whole list of reasons for why this new morning lethargy is happening, and none of them have to do with growing old, so don’t even try. So because I’m dashing about and move move moving the kids, I throw on a sports bra that’s not only… a sports bra, but the back of it doesn’t line up with the top that I’m wearing. Its thick black straps extend inches from the line of my racerback shirt. But it doesn’t matter. It’s cold outside and I’ll be wearing a sweater. You see where I’m going, don’t you?
I toss on my sweater and prance out the house feeling fine. Okay, I lie. I didn’t prance; I ran the kids out like a shrieking Banshee and peeled out of the driveway. Anyhow, by noontime the temperature felt like it was in the 90s. And here’s me. And here’s my sweater. And here we are together in holy matrimony for the rest of the day. Fuck my life. So now I’m forced to spend the rest of my afternoon pretending like I want to be in this thing. Like I’m a middle schooler who never parts from his or her beloved hoodie, no matter the cost. I see these kids every day. I mock them. Now I know they probably all ran out of clean laundry weeks ago and are naked under those things. They can’t remove the hoodies. This is disturbing.
I walk through the parking lot at the end of the workday and all I can think about is getting out of my self-inflicted prison. Peeling off this layer and allowing the warm air to brush against my arms; feel the sun beat against my skin and relax my muscles while I surf the streets, windows down, arm hair flying in the wind.
The moral of this story is this: Keep doing what you’re doing, and make life an adventure.