This week, I changed my work hours, shifting from three full days, to Mon-Fri 1-5pm.
I was a little worried that, by making the change, I’d be enabling myself to lie in bed until mid-day. A valid theory considering last years spectacular slide into depression.
Fortunately that hasn’t happened yet. Instead I use my mornings for writing, cleaning, organising (woo! My favorite thing!), and reading. I’m kind of loving my new ability to ease into the day, because, quite frankly, I’m never going to be a morning person.
I think project ‘Get Up Before 8am’ is still working successfully, because I still have a permanent alarm set. So I wake up that time every single day – even on the weekend.
(That doesn’t mean it’s ever going to be an easy undertaking for me. And it certainly doesn’t mean that I’m going to be exactly pleasant until later in the morning – as my flatmates will attest.)
So anyway, yesterday morning I jump (roll/crawl/slide/ooze/creep) out of bed at 8.00, and shrug on my big fuzzy bathrobe. I love bathrobes. They hover right on the edge of nakidity, and decency.
Anyway, I get a lot done that morning. I did a load of washing, put a treatment through my hair, stripped my bed, wrote a blog-post… All while delightfully un-showered, and wrapped in a bathrobe.
Ok. So I looked like a hobo. An unwashed crazy person, with oily stringy hair (thanks to the hair treatment), and yesterdays make up slowly melting down my face…
(I see you, there, looking at me all judgmental-like.)
Then, right as I was about to jump into the shower, I hear a knock at the door. I pause, one foot in the bathroom, wondering if perhaps I can pretend I didn’t hear it. Besides it was probably someone for the neighbours, anyway.
I step into the bathroom, and edge the door shut, pretending like I don’t hear the follow-up knock. But then the doorbell rings.
Can’t ignore that.
I wrap myself a little more securely in my bathrobe, tuck my greasy hair behind my ears, and open the door. To the plumber. Here to fix the shower issue from Monday.
Crap. And? He’s cute. *headdesk*
I swipe at my – now dripping – hair, trying to pretend casually that I’m just brushing something out of my eye.
The plumber dude stares in horrified silence for a second before saying that he hopes he didn’t just wake me up. I can see that he’s trying to figure out exactly what brand of The Crazy he’s dealing with here.
(Plumbers must have crappy jobs, because nearly all the people home during business hours are home for weird reasons. Like The Crazy.)
So while the plumber is working on the hot water cylinder I shut myself in my room and quickly dress, and scrape my treatmenty hair up away from my face, all the while wondering how the hell I’m going to wash it off, because I’ve heard you shouldn’t leave treatments on too long, because they end up damaging your hair.
Or making it so soft it’s like baby hair again, and you’ll never be able to put it up in a pony tail without fly-aways ever again.
Or turning it so shiny that it blinds random bus drivers, by reflecting the sun into their eyes, and causing crashes.
I get dressed, and saunter out casually, all “Yeah, look at me, I’m wearing clothes now. Clearly I’m not crazy, so you can stop judging me.”
The plumber dude does not seem impressed though. It’s probably because I’m still unwashed, and my treatmenty hair is slowly slithering out of the bun I put it in to keep it out of my face.
Eventually he explains what was wrong, and departs, and I immediately go turn on the shower with a breath of relief, thinking “Well, that started bad, but I think I managed to recover.”
That, conveniently, is when I realise that the shirt I’m wearing is inside out. And I’m not only wearing yesterday’s raccoon eyes. I’m also wearing today’s toothpaste dribble.
Please excuse me while I melt into a puddle of embarrassment over here in the corner.
No wonder the dude was so eager to get out of the house.