“How are you feeling?”
“Like a military academy, bits of me keep on passing out.”
-The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
I, to grossly understate it, am not a morning person. I like to think I’m usually slyly sharp with a Katherine Hepburn-esque wit and sarcasm, but when I’m cranky I’m flat out vicious.
Actually I don’t mind mornings as such, I just hate getting up. Or rather, being woken up before I’m good and ready to do so myself. During freshman year, Jenni and I had a friend who for some reason disdained to eat the cafeteria food graciously bestowed upon us (that was uttered with said biting sarcasm, by the way) and usually cooked her own breakfast. Also inexplicably, although more reasonably so, Jenni had what amounted to a fully stocked kitchen under her dorm room bed complete with mixing bowls, blender, and assorted spices. Our friend Sunny would raid this horde everyday to make herself breakfast, which I had no objection to. But at 6:00 in the morning, which I did.
Sunny is a naturally loud person at normal times but at that ungodly hour of the morning…let’s just say I found it a particular trial. After about a week of trying to swallow my frustration and try go back to sleep after pots had been clanged and crockery clattered, I couldn’t take it. Unfortunately the very next morning Sunny spaced and not only showed up earlier than usual, but accidentally flipped on the lights (at 5:30 in the bloody morning!) when she tiptoed into our dorm room and made such a ruckus under Jenni’s bedthat I erupted.
“Morning, C.,” she chirruped brightly, “Want some breakfast? I’m…um…uh…”
“Sunny?” I murmured darkly.
She didn’t enter our dorm room again without my permission, daylight or not, for the rest of the school year. Apparently I bare an uncanny resemblance to a Fury at 5:30 in the morning.
My latest bone to pick with mornings is my workout schedule. J. and I have started working out together, but on weight lifting days the only time we can seem to manage is early mornings, other times are just too crowded at the gym. Today was the first attempt at the new time. I HATE it. There were about three other girls, all with their respective boyfriends like me, who had to navigate the rows of testosterone soaked equipment with our dinky little 5 and 10 lbs weights while these Hulk-wannabes hefted my entire body weight in each arm for arm curls. Every once and a while some guy let out a roar that sounded suspiciously like he was giving birth, and most spent an inordinate amount of time checking themselves out in the mirrors. If I hadn’t been so cranky/clueless I’d have thought it was hilarious. Unfortunately nothing is funny that early, not even to me.
I’m sticking with it, hating something and giving it up aren’t necessarily mutually inclusive, but I have spent the day encased in emotional ice and venom. With aching muscles. Watch out, I bite.