If you’ve been following this blog
for years awhile this week, you know that I work from home. I’ve been telecommuting for the past year, but prior to that, I was part of the daily grind just like everyone else. This was before I started barking at strangers, and considering brushing my teeth optional.
I am not a morning person in the least bit. I was meant to go to bed at 2AM, and wake up at 10AM. Anything deviating from this means you’re not getting me at my best, and by “best” I mean everyone else’s version of mediocre.
This is how my mornings used to look:
- Alarm goes off
- Curse myself for not being born a Kardashian
- Get up and drop a couple F-bombs on my alarm
- Look in the mirror and wonder if science will one day be able to help me
- Wash face/brush teeth/pee while checking Facebook on my phone
- Pick out an outfit that screams “you don’t pay me enough to dress well”
- Head to work vowing to find a rich husband because I’m too awesome to work
- Get coffee because my hypothalamus is bossy as hell
As we all know, routines aren’t fool proof. Sometimes my alarm wouldn’t go off, causing me to run around like a methed up Usain Bolt. I’d be eating breakfast while blow drying my hair while looking for my keys while getting dressed.
One morning I woke up particularly late, leaving me with 10 minutes to get out the door if I wanted to get coffee and still be on time to work. I had just enough time to pee, brush my teeth, slap on some tinted moisturizer, and dig through the dryer for something to wear before taking off.
Despite my blood pressure reaching stroke levels, I was able to calm down once I saw Starbucks in the distance. I knew that I would soon have a caffeinated beverage in hand, allowing for my brain and body to once again work together as a pair.
I walked in, and there were at least 3,000 people in line. I had to decide between getting coffee, and being late to work. I thought about how much they paid me and thought, “They should be happy I show up at all.”
As I slowly moved my way up the line, my pant leg began bunching up. I reached down, and straightened it. Again I moved, and again it bunched up. I shook my leg a bit, hoping it would fix itself. It didn’t, so I shook a little more vigorously.
Do you know what happens when you continuously shake the leg of a pair of pants you pulled out of a static-laden dryer? You launch a pair of ratty, oversized underwear you only wear when your uterus has swelled to the size of an oil tanker into the middle of a packed Starbucks.
People saw the miniature parachute, looked at me, and I could feel their pity burrowing a hole into the side of my head. They’d go to work and say, “Some girl at Starbucks threw her underwear around like she was at a KISS concert. At first I thought it was a small pillowcase, but it was definitely a pair of panties.”
My first instinct was to run out of there, leaving my panties as a warning to all oversleepers, but decided to stick it out and get my coffee. It was a long 10 minutes in line.
Later that day I called a friend, and we laughed as I told him about the incident. “Don’t ever let it be said that the coffee at Starbucks isn’t any good. It’s so amazing it’ll rip the panties right off of you.”