Color Coded Mornings
Some mornings I hate more than others.
Waking up at 6 am once a week to beat the cursed color coding scheme is one of the most dreaded things to do in the name of working for a living. Why do they call it color-coding anyway when they look at your plate number? If the name doesn’t make sense, it should be illegal and thus be banned.
Anyway, I dread Tuesday mornings for a number of dread reasons.
Being shouted at, nudged, slapped, or shaken awake is a bad start. Ok, so the eyes open, but the rest of your body didn’t get the message, so they just lie there quietly, waiting for your eyes to forget what it saw. Being an impartial judge, I always declare that when it comes to my body, the majority should always win. Unfortunately, Nel has managed to secure veto rights and is dragging me down the stairs at 6:10 am by my hair.
Coding days will subject you to the real definition of breakfast: a piece of broken-down bread, which you have to eat fast. A complete, delicious or nutritious is a luxury one can’t afford is one is hell-bent on beating the 7 am deadline to be at the office.
Then, the most dreaded thing of all: the first spray of Doom.
Nobody would admit to this, and reports might say otherwise, but the most wasteful use of water is not the faucet dripping, ostentatious swimming pools, or watering a golf course.
It’s the morning shower.
Not the actual bath taking, but the five minutes or more worth of water wasted by half-awake individuals dancing the fandango inside the bathroom, alternately trying to catch the first spray and avoiding it. I have a theory that most of the blood-curling screams used as horror movie effects were recorded inside the bathroom at 5:30 am (If you listen really closely, you may hear the slow squeaky turning of the shower prior to the scream).
It may be true that nothing wakes you up better than a cold shower. All I know is that nothing irritates the hell out of you as well.
Clothes are an afterthought at 6:25, since you have five minutes to spare. Just grab the nearest hangered ensemble and pray that the belt you snatched on the way downstairs matches your socks. Any beauty or skin products will have to defer application until you reach the office parking lot.
6:30 am. Check engine, start the car, and zoom into the city. Not only are do you lack sleep, but you are tired, hungry, and irritable. Then you turn on the radio, and this idiot DJ shouts with a “Good Morning. I feel good today! Do you feel good? Don’t worry I’ll keep you company all the way to 9!” Goody. I turn the damn thing off, oblivious to the buzzing in my ears. I should write my congressman and propose that cheery persons should be kept confined at home until 7:30 am, and if found loitering, should be shot until dead.
It’s 5 minutes after 7. You reach the office without a hitch, although you were biting your nails the whole drive. As I park the car, I swear I’ll bop the first person who greets me a good morning.
Now tell me, why would anyone want to start the day like this?
Waking up at 6 am once a week to beat the cursed color coding scheme is one of the most dreaded things to do in the name of working for a living. Why do they call it color-coding anyway when they look at your plate number? If the name doesn’t make sense, it should be illegal and thus be banned.
Anyway, I dread Tuesday mornings for a number of dread reasons.
Being shouted at, nudged, slapped, or shaken awake is a bad start. Ok, so the eyes open, but the rest of your body didn’t get the message, so they just lie there quietly, waiting for your eyes to forget what it saw. Being an impartial judge, I always declare that when it comes to my body, the majority should always win. Unfortunately, Nel has managed to secure veto rights and is dragging me down the stairs at 6:10 am by my hair.
Coding days will subject you to the real definition of breakfast: a piece of broken-down bread, which you have to eat fast. A complete, delicious or nutritious is a luxury one can’t afford is one is hell-bent on beating the 7 am deadline to be at the office.
Then, the most dreaded thing of all: the first spray of Doom.
Nobody would admit to this, and reports might say otherwise, but the most wasteful use of water is not the faucet dripping, ostentatious swimming pools, or watering a golf course.
It’s the morning shower.
Not the actual bath taking, but the five minutes or more worth of water wasted by half-awake individuals dancing the fandango inside the bathroom, alternately trying to catch the first spray and avoiding it. I have a theory that most of the blood-curling screams used as horror movie effects were recorded inside the bathroom at 5:30 am (If you listen really closely, you may hear the slow squeaky turning of the shower prior to the scream).
It may be true that nothing wakes you up better than a cold shower. All I know is that nothing irritates the hell out of you as well.
Clothes are an afterthought at 6:25, since you have five minutes to spare. Just grab the nearest hangered ensemble and pray that the belt you snatched on the way downstairs matches your socks. Any beauty or skin products will have to defer application until you reach the office parking lot.
6:30 am. Check engine, start the car, and zoom into the city. Not only are do you lack sleep, but you are tired, hungry, and irritable. Then you turn on the radio, and this idiot DJ shouts with a “Good Morning. I feel good today! Do you feel good? Don’t worry I’ll keep you company all the way to 9!” Goody. I turn the damn thing off, oblivious to the buzzing in my ears. I should write my congressman and propose that cheery persons should be kept confined at home until 7:30 am, and if found loitering, should be shot until dead.
It’s 5 minutes after 7. You reach the office without a hitch, although you were biting your nails the whole drive. As I park the car, I swear I’ll bop the first person who greets me a good morning.
Now tell me, why would anyone want to start the day like this?
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