Why I'm Not a Morning Person

Brief "must-know's" before I rehash this pride-altering, life-threatening, over-the-top story that, once again, proves that I am somehow living Ashton Kutcher's Punk'd my entire life:

1. I am not a morning person. You're lucky if I can complete full sentences before 10am.

2. Fortunately I have located my auto-pilot button and that's been working well for the last 20-something years.

3. Auto-pilot does not react well to inconsiderate bikers, oncoming traffic, and weird, angry, crazy people. Yes, that's foreshadowing.

4. I have a carafe of wine right now because Lord knows I need it to rehash this story. Does someone have a long bendy straw? Better yet, just tap an IV and let's get right down to it.

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Once upon a time, roughly around the ninth month of 2007, I was enjoying a blissful morning before heading to work at my Gold Coast, boutique-y, overly pretentious salon. I had slept at my (then) boyfriend's house the night before. So, me being me, I slept those extra two minutes that make all the difference leaving me with just enough time to get up, get ready for work, drive from his house to mine (Between 7 and 10 minutes depending on lights... But who's counting?), park my car, and walk to work. Sometimes, if I get all green lights I have time to run upstairs to my apartment and drop off my overnight bag. Usually I don't.

I'm rushing. I shower on fast-forward, get dressed, throw my hair in a ponytail, and am out the door in record time. I can actually make it to work on time! (Which is 9am by the way. And it was a Tuesday. And considering the salon was so dead I was lucky to have 4 clients on a Saturday, I somehow felt that my rush to get to work would only result in some extra time to get my crossword done, blowdry and/or curl my hair, apply makeup, go to lunch, have a heart-to-heart with Mom in Texas, and finish a novel all by 5pm.)

Overnight bag, work bag, and purse in hand (or on shoulder) I haul up to my car taking stairs two at a time, and make it out of his lot by 8:50. I can still make it! But no, going down the middle of the street is one of those construction accordion-looking lift thingies traveling at a whopping three miles an hour. I'm stuck behind him. The street is really narrow and passing him on either side would mean either driving on the sidewalk or taking off the sides of about twelve cars parked on the street. Both options seem costly, so I refrain. I could honk, but with my luck, I'd startle the man, he'd fall off said accordion thingie and I'd have a lawsuit on my hands. Another costly option I choose to defer.

A nice also burly looking man (with a beard) yells to the accordion man to move out of the middle of the street and he does so. I'm eternally grateful to said bearded burly man and am waving him thank you as I accelerate only to come feet from a semi backing up a la Austin Powers into a loading dock. Again, I'm stuck. Why did this man help me if I was going to be stuck anyway? Not the point. Anyway, I wait out the truck finally pulling in and I'm off like the gates just opened and the gun just fired.

Unfortunately the turn from this particular street onto the main street is a blind left turn. And by blind left turn I mean I mastered (somewhat) looking in the reflections of the cars across the street for oncoming traffic. So, as I thought I mastered it, and because it was early, I inched out of the street to get a quick confirmation peek and speedily turn left. Well, I was wrong. My eyes deceived me and there was a car coming. Car slams on breaks, I slam on acceleration, I get flicked off and try to slow my heart rate down to a semi-normal pace but I can feel it beating in my ears. I wave apologetically to the other driver (we didn't crash, just to clarify) and keep on my way---driving a lot more carefully. (Two things. 1. That car was totally speeding by the way. But that's neither here nor there if I get broadsided and end up looking like previously mentioned accordion thingie. And 2. I am now awake.)

Now it's 8:57 and I'm obviously going to be late but I'm hauling anyway. I sit through two light changes at a very large intersection because People's Energy decided that rush hour was a good time to fix stuff. I make it home by 9:03 and I grab my stuff (all my bags, coat, etc...) and I'm out of my garage and literally running down the street.

I sometimes cut through this little alleyway behind the Bank of America on Division and State to cut literally a minute off of my oh-so-intolerable commute of 5 blocks from my house to work. So I am cutting through said handy-dandy alleyway when I see an oncoming car. Trying to be courteous I move to the left to let the car pass as I speed walk (arms and all) to work. As I'm moving to my left, a biker speeds past me with no warning and literally I think he took off some arm hair. It scares the jeepers out of me and I trip over a pothole, fall face first to the pavement, bags go flying over my head, and nice man in car stops and says,

"Are you OK???"

Me: "Yes, physically. I'm not really sure about my pride at the moment."

He laughs; I get up and brush myself off. Mentally I give myself an attitude-adjusting pep talk with the basic tone of "Get it together, woman!" and continue (slowly) to work. I don't care if I'm ten or fifteen minutes late to work. I'll be lucky to make it there alive!

To add insult to injury (Literally! I scraped my knee and twisted my ankle!) as I am walking and mentally thinking about the craziness that ensued in literally 20 minutes and worrying about what the rest of the day may bring---a Harry Potter-eque, mid-to-late-fifties, plaid and khaki wearing (with a blue blazer), bald, would-typically-be-friendly-looking African American man looks directly at me... I mean straight in my eyes... and says matter-of-factly, "You're still fat and ugly." (Yes, read that again. And again. That. Really. Happened.)

Jaw drops. And literally all I could do is laugh. My logic is: 1. I'm not fat. But 2. Even if I was fat, I am certainly not an ugly fat girl! So this is just ridiculous. I laugh it off, wait a second for cameras to pop out of the wood works or the cheap, scandalous hotel to my right, but ultimately make it safely to work... Or so I thought...

As I walk in, my greasy ponytail'd boss with his Gucci jeans hiked up to his nipples has his arms crossed in front of him, waiting at the front desk with a very unhappy look on his face. I am quite obviously winded as I walk in, look to my left, and my client is sitting on the couch, waiting for me. Let me reiterate. 9am, on a Tuesday. The odds of that happening when I couldn't pay people to come into that salon was so slim that I chalked it up to another force of nature. I apologized profusely, and explained to my client the events of the morning. He forgave me, reassured me that I'm not fat or ugly, and told me to take a personal day and go home.

I went shopping for a helmet and two mattresses to wear for the rest of the day, week, month, year. Couldn't find them but I took a cab the 5 blocks home when my day finally ended. And now you know why I'm not a morning person.