Silent Screaming at 7am

The day started out pretty rough yesterday, as most Mondays usually do.

I tried to put on one of those camisoles that are squishy-tight and supposedly smooth out your fat rolls like a tube of sausage. It got stuck before I could pull it over my head, and I ended up running around in a silent scream with my arms trapped inside it.

The back had rolled up so tightly around my neck that my shoulders were scrunched up to my ears like I had no neck at all, and my elbows were pointed straight into the air so I could barely reach the front to try and tug it down. I looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame with T-rex arms.

Trixie had already left for school, it was 7 a.m., and I was exhausted. I finally sat down on the edge of my bed trying to catch my breath, chest heaving with exertion, arms dangling helplessly in the air. And yes, sweating out the top of my head.

I couldn’t get it off and I couldn’t get it on. So I resorted to the only strategy I had left: The Hulk. With a burst of inner rage and monstrous strength, I shoved my fists into the front of the material and pushed outward as hard as I could like I was the Incredible Hulk ripping out of my clothes.

And it worked. Holy Jesus, thank you.

For about ten seconds afterward, I seriously considered ways to keep Trixie from going away to college because apparently, I can no longer get dressed by myself in the morning.

Mornings suck. The bedroom is dark and I’m constantly running into things, slamming my toes into door jambs, and putting my underwear on backward. I took a deep breath and immediately tripped over a pillow while leaving the room.

Yes, I could get things ready the night before to make mornings easier, but when it’s nighttime, I always forget how bad mornings actually are. Then every morning I vow to be more prepared the next day. It’s a vicious circle.

I probably should’ve realized earlier in the week that things were headed south. Ethel and I spent some girl time together on Sunday and went to Walmart to look at rugs for her house. All I did was LOOK at one and an entire row of rugs came crashing down and started rolling all over the aisle.

Did she help me? NO. She just glanced over, shook her head, rolled her eyes, and kept walking. We were almost done shopping when she remembered something and said, “Stay here. Stay RIGHT here. DON’T MOVE. I’ll be right back.”

That lasted about thirty seconds before I spotted something shiny and scampered off to investigate. I nearly jumped out of my skin at the jewelry counter when she suddenly appeared behind me and yelled, rather loudly, “I TOLD YOU NOT TO MOVE!”

And then I screamed out loud. I should probably admit here that earlier in the trip I had already gotten separated from her several times and ended up frantically jogging through Walmart yelling, “Ethel? ETHEL, WHERE ARE YOU?”

It’s a panicky feeling that never really goes away, even as an adult who technically knows how to call a cab if your friend finally gets sick of your nonsense and abandons you in a public space. And honestly, I can be pretty annoying, so I probably wouldn’t blame her.

This has been my clumsiest stretch of days since I fell off my shoes. I’ve dropped my toast face-down onto the passenger seat of my car, spilled BBQ sauce all over my pajama pants at dinner (which were fresh out of the dryer and still warm), dropped the mail all over my boss’s office floor and had to crawl around gathering it up like a confused little monkey, put dirty dishes into a dishwasher full of clean dishes, and accidentally brought home the key to a company vehicle after discovering it in my jacket pocket tonight. Whoopsies. Hopefully nobody needs that before morning.

Am I losing my mind? Wait. Don’t answer that.

I don’t think I want to know.

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Another story tucked safely back in the nest.