Today is Tuesday. On Tuesday mornings, I work the front desk at a dance studio downtown, beginning at 8:30 am. I have to leave my upper-east-side apartment by 7:40ish--7:45 at the absolute latest--to make it on time.
This morning, I awoke at 8:30.
Naturally, extreme panic immediately took place in my body and brain. I am quite amazed, though, at the method of response my body chose in this time of dire need: a combination of auto pilot and instant prioritizing. First: get out of the bed. (Which was actually more difficult than one might imagine, this time around. I sleep with two sets of covers, and in my state of hysteria, I became tangled up in the both of them. Lots of frantic leg-kicking ensued. This is easy to imagine, I'm sure.) Second: pick up cell phone, which is resting next to bed on nightstand, and wonder why the hell the alarm didn't go off. This was easily figured out--it had shut itself off in the middle of the night, despite its still being plugged in and charged. (My cell phone alone deserves a blog, really. It has served me well for the past year and a half, but it must be very, very near its death, because it has developed certain idiosyncrasies which sometimes make it difficult for me to carry on a normal life. For example. My phone likes to send its own text messages--which are never composed of anything more frightening than gibberish like 99999iiishshsoogogogg or 89898989898oooo--to made-up phone numbers that usually include an alarming number of sixes. It also likes to tell me that it's about to die, even when fully charged, and then it follows through on that warning by shutting itself off in the midst of a phone call. But I digress.)
So, I spend a precious ten seconds cursing my cell phone. That was apparently necessary, according to my parasympathetic nervous system, which is now in overdrive. It feels as if I have ice in my veins. Now: pants. Those must come on. I spy a pair of slightly-dirty jeans on my bedroom floor and throw them on. I still have my socks on from yesterday, so that leaves only shoes. Tennie sneaks are thrust upon my feet with speed and absolutely no grace. I stagger to the bathroom as I'm shoving my heels into my converse and assess the situation that faces me in the mirror. Naturally, I immediately wish I hadn't. I still have my makeup on from the previous day, and my hair is a fright. (I do not mean that in a figurative way. My hair literally gave me a fright. It...scared me.) I had had plans of taking a shower this morning--delusions of grandeur, now--but all but the essentials must be abandoned. Face-washing? Nope, my brain answered. None of that. No time. Hair-brushing? Ahahaaaa, my brain laughed. Good one, you little jokester, you. Coffee? My brain didn't even dignify that one with a response. So, I brushed my teeth. And put my contacts in. Those were my only hygenic and aesthetic allotments of the morning.
I grab my coat off one of the kitchen chairs, snap up my purse from next to the coffee table, run out the door and down the stairs, and haul ass to the subway station. I promptly began sweating (truly, this is a miracle of both science and God, that I began sweating in thirty-four-degree weather), once on the train, when I realized we were going at roughly a snail's pace and that I had absolutely no shot of getting to the dance studio by even 9 am.
I didn't officially enter the studio until 9:18. Luckily, the front desk manager who works with me, Arianne, had very kindly opened up the studio sound systems and let those poor people who were waiting for me to open everything up inside once she got here at 9 am. I then frantically rushed around, doing my opening duties at hyper-speed, studiously avoiding looking at my reflection in the mirror, frightful hair trailing behind me in my wake.
I need...a shower.
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