On Monday mornings, I hit snooze until my phone glows 7:15 and the minutes before I have to leave run sparse.
On Monday mornings, my limbs cling to their winter white bed and the fluffy blankets, the soft gray flannel sheets and the pillows beckoning: stay.
On Monday mornings, I concentrate on wiggling fingers and toes to wake up like our yoga teacher instructs us after shavasana at the end of class. Gentle awakenings. (They never happen to me.)
I hurl my body over the side of the bed and hope my legs still work.
On Monday mornings, I make a bleary-eyed beeline for the Capresso bean grinder in the kitchen, fire it up and turn on the Mr. Coffee. Skipping this is not an option.
Today I threw two makeshift burritos together and wrapped them in a paper towel so I won’t go all day with only the vending machine to quell my appetite. Because there have been too many days when all I eat is one tiny bag of Cheez-Its.
It’s hard to survive on just Cheez-Its.
On Monday mornings, I finagle my hair in the bathroom with the bright lights and the hot iron and the brush with the tangles and the fat hairbands for thick hair until it reaches a state of (somewhat) organized chaos, otherwise known as the “messy bun”.
I pat my face with a soft, wet washcloth and cover my skin in a layer of moisturizer and then foundation. No time for cleanser and it’s too dry anyway this time of winter. A few quick flicks of the wrist applies mascara and then blush.
On Monday mornings, clothing choices don’t even matter. Put on pants. Put on a shirt or maybe a warm sweater in case I have outdoor duty. Try to remember my ID badge.
Try to remember to bring my coffee and my water and my lunch bag that was just packed 10 minutes ago as I walk out the door, lock the door, walk to my car and pray that the windows haven’t iced over.
Inevitably the windows have iced over.
On Monday mornings, somehow, I make it to work on time.
On Monday mornings, I am alive, though not yet awake.