The Morning Routine in All Its Glory

Because all of you need to feel as pained as I do, I feel the need to detail my Monday through Friday morning routine:

• Wake up multiple times during the night, usually starting around 3am and in a puddle of my own sweat, yet I am still cold. I can only guess that this is what menopausal women suffer. This is What We Talk About When We Talk About Hot Flashes (seriously, that should have been one of your titles there Mr. Raymond Carver). I first started experiencing the hot flash at night sometime in early 2009. At the time, I wasn't on any new medications, nor had my lifestyle changed in any significant way. I just started waking up feeling like I did that one time when orange and delicious peed on my head (and to think, he was only 13 at the time!). I have been less sweaty while walking around on a 100-degree, 100% humidity day in Texas. If there can be anything worse than waking up between damp sheets, is that somehow, inexplicably, I am cold! I will continue to wake up about once an hour to check in on The Boy to make sure he has not drowned in my salty fluids. He never seems to notice since he is too busy with his sleep apnea experiments (he holds his breath in his sleep then lets the air out like a 5-year-old making a balloon squeal).
• Wake up about 10 minutes before the alarm goes off, check my watch to make sure what deep inside of me I already know, that yes, I truly only have 10 minutes left (I cannot actually see the alarm clock, because it is a mere 2' away, which is about 1'11" more than my eyes can handle). At this time, I start making wishes. Mainly that I was dead. Not because I am suicidal, but because it just sounds so grand to never have to get out of bed again. And I already sleep in my own juices, so how much worse can death be? It takes about 5 minutes to get through this wishful-thinking stage and move on to bargaining (yes, me getting out of bed is very similar to the 5-stages of grief). Bargaining is math at 5:45am. No one likes math at this time in the dark morning. I start calculating if I can sleep 8-20 minutes later depending on when the last time I showered, shaved my legs or both. Due to my curly-to-frizzy hair, I must shower at least every other day, because the casual ponytail-with-tendrils look only works once before it becomes a greasy, flattened mess. As far as shaving goes, I'm really lazy in this area, and usually solve the problem by wearing pants, or my knee-high whore boots with a knee-length skirt. Part of the calculations is doing the math to figure out changing the alarm setting. This can be hard to do when the anti-anxiety meds are still holding me under murky water, compounded by the fact that I seem to like the alarm clock to be set 55 minutes ahead. Also, I have to physically lay across The Boy's face to change the alarm setting; again, he does not notice since he is busy gulping for air to hold in his lungs. At this time I review how often I have called in late or sick in the past 2 months, and decide if enough time has passed for me to try one of these tricks. Usually I have just done this like the day before, so the answer is a solid, disheartening NO.
  
• Then there is the process of extricating myself from The Boy, the sheet and quilt. It sounds easy, but I swear it isn't. So much could go wrong, mainly giving up and going back to sleep. Since I do not really enjoy crawling over The Boy's body during this painful time (what if this turns him on in his sleep and he gets all grabby hands?), I climb out at the bottom of the bed. This used to be relatively simple, but we bought a nice mattress about a month ago, and even though it was the same length as the old futon we used to sleep on (damn mildewed lumpy affront to humanity and my aching joints), this mattress seems somehow to be shorter. Even though it still seems to take up the same amount of space as the old futon, in that it sits against the top of the headboard and the bottom abuts my plastic 2-drawer cabinet (it holds my socks on top and sweaters on bottom), it is still somehow shorter. I know this because The Boy's feet now hang off the bed. I would like to use them as handicapped handles for my blind and tortured body, but for some reason he does not appreciate that unless accompanied by a foot massage. Squeezing my body between what is known as the "Sock Drawer" and his feet has often proved difficult and hazardous to my health, especially if he left his sneakers at the foot of the bed.
• Once I manage to get to the bedroom door, there is some dancing I am forced to do to keep at least two cats from barreling in to the bedroom on a quest for food. I refuse to kick them, so I do a shimmy and see how little the door has to be open for me to squeeze past it. The situation is not made any better by a bookshelf at the end of the hall that my bubble-butt will invariably knock against when trying to make the cats back the fuck off.
• If I am feeling somewhat in a good mood, I may lean down and pet any cat that comes near me. Some days, I just grumble a "hello" at them.
  
• Then to the bathroom, one door down on the left. Good god the light is so fucking bright, and the litterbox stinks, but there's my old man sleeping in the sink. Check to make sure he's not dead by holding my breath, and staring at his stomach for signs of life. To date, this has always had a positive outcome. I then give him some of my best loving--headbutts, nose kisses, belly rubs, and plenty of "I love you so very much, and don't tell the other cats, but you remain my favorite. Also, don't even think about dying, EVER." He opens his sleepy liver spotted eyes, and myopically stares at me and starts purring. This is the best gift I receive every morning. I might even nibble on his disgustingly waxy old-man ears, just so he knows how much I love him.
• Most days I do shower, so I let the water heat up while I inspect my face for any overnight-forming of zits (usually on my chin, because I am not just a hot flasher, I also drool more than all the saliva you created throughout a whole day) and stray eyebrow hairs. Our bathroom is small to the point of almost being pointless. I have to put my towel on the toilet, so I don't get the floor all wet (the Swamp Thing I live with apparently likes ponds of water in the bathroom). Shower is quick as can be for a person who has unruly curly bed hair. Shampoo, scrub face, soap body, possibly shave, soap the crotch one more time for good measure (that tub isn't the cleanest and I have to shave sitting down because I am blind and have zero ability to stand on one leg without slicking all the skin off my shin of the other leg), brush teeth (old man in sink means all brushing has to happen in the shower) rinse hair. To me this should take less than 5 mins, but somehow morphs in to 20 mins, and I really have no idea how (except if I shaved, then it makes sense; it takes time to work a razor through that thicket of black hairs). Towel off both feet before stepping out of tub. Greet the old man again (he has already forgotten I was there, and I don't want him scared by any sudden movements I may make). Stick in my contacts, and put on deodorant if I am wearing a shirt that buttons or is white; otherwise, skip that step until after I put on clothes.
• Leave the bathroom, feel guilty that it is all steamy in there and that the old man may suffocate in the rain forest I created (he never seems to mind, but geez, it is hot in there). Head naked toward the kitchen with three cats following me with three different voices: chirping, some kind of goat-like noise that I can barely hear, and an insistent high-pitched meow. Get a disposable syringe out of the pantry, head to the fridge and grab the insulin (always with a bit of paranoia that today will be the day I drop it thus breaking its fragile molecule and making it useless). The whole time fighting off the fat Siamese winding itself around my legs (really, bastard, are you going to pay for this $100 vial of insulin if I drop it?), and draw out 3.5 units. Then hold the filled syringe in my mouth, and go to the "food" closet (squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeal of door), and portion out the FOUR different kind of foods I have to give the cats. Exhausting. I'm not even dressed yet. Sigh. Take first two bowls and put down in the kitchen for the fat Siamese and the ear flattener (oh my god, hand coming down from above, will it kill me...oh, it's food...hooray!). One gets weight-control food, the other gets some kind of stinky anti-bacterial food. Inevitably they will switch bowls because obviously the other cat has the better food. Sometimes I just put down the wrong bowl to trick them. Ha ha, walnut-sized brains. Then I have to retrieve the diabetic cat's face out of the fat Siamese's food bowl (as a diabetic, he may wish for all the deep-fried hams and other cats' food he wants, but he can't have it), and carry him to the bedroom where he gets fed separately (so the temptation to drink Coke and eat a bacon cheeseburger is removed). As he eats, I give him his insulin shot sub-cu. He totally does not notice in anyway, he is too busy making sure all his kibble ends up outside of the bowl so he can be a little snarfing vacuum. Seriously, this cat eats his food by shaking his face and snotting on it all at once. Whatever makes my little fatty lumpkins happy.
  
• While chirpy-bird (the diabetic cat has many nicknames) frantically eats his food like he will never be fed again, I quickly get dressed in the dark to the dulcet sounds of The Boy's breathing. I always lay my clothes out the night before since I can't exactly turn on the light to pick them out in the morning, lest I wake the very angry man in the bed who foolishly stayed up until 3:30am playing Grand Theft Auto or watching Doctor Who. Usually whoopis (see, 3 nicknames already!) wants out before I'm actually done dressing. This is particularly annoying because his way of letting you know he's done is by scratching at the door and howling at it. You should see the bottom of the door. It is made of cheap particle board, and what he has done to the door really just shows you how cheap it is. We're talking strips of it have been flayed off by his anxious paws.
• Give boy a kiss (sometimes this backfires in that I trip over whatever is laying next to the bed and I kind of just smash in to his body), and leave the bedroom.
• Stand in front of hallway mirror to try and make something of my hair and face. Some days are better than others.
  
• Run to pick up the other cats' bowls because the diabetic is at it again. Ascertain that their water bowl is filled with clean fresh water (hear that boy, FILLED, CLEAN, WATER!). Get a scoop of food for the old man in the sink (geriatric food!), and enter the bathroom where the humidity threatens to ruin everything I attempted to correct with my hair. I show the old man that he has food, but he'd rather sleep. I so don't blame him. I put on deodorant and perfume as necessary (I have this great perfume from Demeter that smells like cherry Chapstick, but it leaves my skin looking like I rubbed every last thing I'm allergic to against it. I figure smelling good is sometimes better than looking good since I am able to obtain all the sex I could want).
• Time is seriously running short at this point, so I frantically scrounge around the fridge for my mainstays at work: yogurt, 16oz bottle of Coke, banana and grape tomatoes if we have them. Then I scurry over to the coffee table, unplug the laptop and shove in bag with some difficulties, shove in book, fridge items, verify I have my cellphone, check that wallet contains driver's license and some bail money. Lastly, and this is really important, make sure I have my laptop's battery. Woe is my world when I forget that.
• Before actually leaving, I check to make sure there are no Netflix to send back, since I somehow agreed to be the designated person on this front. Grab any bills sitting under my keys and out the door I go.
• Suddenly I am extremely aware I am wearing heels and already find it tiring, and can't imagine how I will make it through the next 9+ hours of them on my feet. Clump down the driveway in the most ungraceful way possible, usually without bending my knees and with my ass sticking out for balance. The car is parked 5 times out of 7 on the street (funny how when I bought the car in May, it was deemed that it should be the one in the driveway instead of the truck that might as well go join the old man in the sink for how old and tired it is), which means a longer way to go on uncertain legs.
• Unlock car, and unceremoniously dump bag with laptop in it on to passenger seat (and wonder why this laptop constantly does not meet my expectations in performance). Glance at clock (only 5 mins fast here), and head out. I'm only going 4 miles. It should be around 6:45am at this point, but it is usually more like 6:53am. This does not change anything for me. It is dark, I am fantasizing about the bed, and make it to work on nothing but my right foot on the gas/break and my dreams. If you ask me later in the day to recall that 10-minute drive, I won't be able to unless something traumatic happens (like that time I saw a motorcycle hit a truck and the rider and bike flew in the air and did a dramatic flip to land on his back on the passing lane of I-35--I called 911, and found out later from my paramedic friend that he turned away the ambulance saying he was just fine).
• Arrive at work. Sit in car for a moment to admire the sunrise. I have a rooftop space which would probably piss a lot of people off, but I enjoy the view. Sometimes I even take pictures of the sunrise. Then I begrudgingly take mincing, pained, high-heeled steps down the slop of the garage to enter the building. Thus, the morning routine ends, and work begins.

Now you can see why I'm so tired and cranky all the time, and why I refuse to get up on the weekends to do these chores. That is totally for The Boy. Dear sweet thing can't understand how much I love sleep, in that he likes being awake as much as possible, but he will let me sleep, which is LOVE.