I am not a morning person. I get up around 5:30 during the week and I hate it. I don’t pop out of bed singing and greeting pretty little blue birds. Squirells don’t pounce on my bed with excitement to say good morning. In fact I’m pretty sure all woodland creatures hear my alarm go off like an air raid siren and hide in little makeshift bomb shelters. My cats head straight for the door to go outside so as to escape my wrath. I know I am not a morning person, which is why I wake up so early. I have to give myself at least an hour to wake up and reach an exceptable level of sanity and even temper. If anything happens before the hour is complete anyone around me is subject to crying, yelling, confusion, and flat out ignoring. It is best not to aproach me for any reason, this includes good morning kisses. The flames in my eyes with ignite and, although not a definate, there is a slight posibility you may get head butted.
I have my morning routine so as to avoid being arrested for domestic abuse and neglect. In the past year this routine has been shortened substantially by my job. We wear scrubs which has allowed me to use less brain power when getting dressed. For the most part I lay my scrubs out for the next day before I go to bed so I can think even less in the morning. Last night this was not the case.
When I woke up
after hitting snooze for 40 minutes I got out of bed at the same time BF did. Mistake number one. Remembering I had not set out my clothes for the day I had to scavenge for something to wear. Mistake number 2. Still asleep, I decided to go through my dresser for something to wear instead of the laundry baskets. Mistake number 3. Let me explain something, clothes in our house hardly ever make it into their respective dressers. 3 of us wear uniforms and the 4th is a creature of habbit and wears the same clothes over and over so the same clothes get worn week after week. Nothing. Changes. Digging into a dresser for clothes is almost like entering the Amazon at night, you’ll never know what you may happen upon.
I start to think maybe starting the coffee before looking for clothes would have been a smarter course of events, but as I open the underwear drawer I decide to continue on my path of destruction and wait to make coffee. So there I am, puting on my underwear after waking up WITH someone and without having coffee first, when I suddenly realize this is not MY underwear! I take them off and look. I check the tag with other tags in the drawer. This isn’t my usual Wal-mart underwear. I double check the tags again. Nothing matches.
I put the underwear back on. Still not my underwear.
Baffled and confused I go into the bathroom and sit on the toilet, defeated. This is not my underwear. BF peaks his head out of the shower. “Hi baby! Are you ok?”
“No, this is not my underwear.”
“Huh? Who’s underwear is it?”
“I have no idea.” I am so confused at this point all I want to do is cry. Did I bring them home by accident the last time I was at my parents house? Did one of our recent houseguests leave them when they spent the night? This is not my underwear. Where did it come from? And why am I still wearing it?
Wait a minute. Laundry room. There on the top of the dirty clothes is my underwear from the day before. I look at the style. I look at the tag. I look at what I’m wearing. These are my underwear! My daily routine had caused me to wear the same 5-7 pairs of underwear every week. Back in Novemeber I bought a pack of 3 underwear, evidently only 2 pairs made their way into the rotation. The lone black pair from the pack of 3 had been put away
obviously by accident and never made its way onto my bottom until now.
I learned many new lessons today.
1. Coffee is always to come first.
2. Waking up WITH someone is even more detrimental to my routine than priviosly known.
3. BF now thinks I’m even more nuts than he did yesterday.
4. This is the most comfortable pair of underwear I’ve ever worn. I would still be wearing them even if they weren’t mine because on Mondays you’re allowed to be that gross.
They were clean, it’s just like borrowing a bathing suit. Don’t judge me.