Nine beautiful hours of sleep last night, so rare and effective I realize I forgot to put on deodorant yesterday. I’m thinking, it’s going to be a good day.
Hop on my bike to get to the Gables, sun’s coming up, roads are slick. It’s dark and it’s early and I’m probably taking the turn too quickly. The bike slips from under me, erasing skin from my elbow, dinging my hip, dunking me in puddled rainwater and muck. I’m thinking, what the fuck?
When I’m impressively happy, part of me anticipates the other shoe dropping. Is this because that’s been how my life has been, or is it self-fulfilling sabotage?
I stand up, looking like an egg dipped partially in some new Paas color, Muddy Grey Depression. Blood drips down my elbow. If I wait a few hours for the mud to dry, I’d have a perfect cast of my right foot. I’m slightly more than halfway to work, so the question becomes whether to turn around and clean up or do a shift looking like I just came from shooting a Miller Lite commercial where the men are playing pick-up football in the rain.
By the time I get home for a second shower, the blood on my elbow is dry. To get the mud off, I need to scrub the scabs away as well. On the plus side, I don’t need coffee to wake up. I throw my muddy clothes and some darks in the washer, put on a lesser outfit, and climb on the bike again. Heavy morning commute traffic, sun blazing because of the lateness of the hour. It’s twenty minutes to nine and my morning is shot. There will be no writing. The whole day will feel slightly off.
The second shower doesn’t take. I’m sitting in the buying office at Books & Books, dripping sweat on my keyboard. My elbow is raw and stinging. My thoughts are white noise because I didn’t get to push them into my laptap.
I sigh, and resign myself to working a full day like a normal person.