The Comedy Routine
They say haste makes waste and that is true. Haste, in my case, leads directly to an unscripted comedy routine and it starts with a few diabolical distractions.
I get up early, at least two hours before I need to start getting ready for work. These are the only hours in the day I have to sit alone in the quiet. I use that time to read my devotions, enjoy a cup of coffee (sometimes two) and write. Yet, this is also when I get into the most trouble.
Distractions, like rabbit trails, lead me further and further into the forest and farther away from what I should be focusing on - getting ready for work. In one heartbeat, I have two hours to putter. In the next I have less than a half hour to pack my lunch, shower, dry my hair, put on my make up and figure out what in the heck to wear that day. Breakfast? Well now that will have to be toast and peanut butter in the car. I bet you can see where this was going a lot faster than I did.
The first malaise to strike was dropsy. I couldn't hold anything, hairbrush, toothbrush or makeup bottle. Precious time was wasted picking things up off the floor and cleaning up spilled cosmetics. By the time I skittered into the kitchen, the comedy act was in full swing.
I managed to get my lunch ingredients from the refrigerator to the counter without mishap, but my luck ended there. When I slammed the lid down on the container holding my salad, the container toppled over and spewed pickled beets and red liquid out in a wide arc over the counter, the floor and my white shirt.
The shirt went into the washer and my sweet husband, who had stood off in a distance watching, decided it was time to step in. He offered to finish packing my lunch while I dashed back to the closet for another blouse.
In order to save a few more minutes, I not only opted to wear my black flats, I didn't bother to button my coat either. Both of those choices led to an increase in the slapstick element of my routine.
Our garage is a tad small for our big rigs, especially the 3/4 ton 4x4 truck. In order to close the garage door, the truck must sit ten inches from the door leading into the house. My survival bag, filled with my lunch, Kindle, makeup, phone charger, and all the other paraphernalia I drag around on workdays, measures twelve inches. Sliding past the truck is an intricate dance movement one should never try to rush. Pressed for time, I tried slipping through at about Mach 4.
They also say if it weren't for bad luck some would have no luck at all. Yep, I can vouch for that. The handle on my bag caught on the license plate frame, forcing me to retreat toward the door. In doing so, the lever shaped door handle snagged my unbuttoned coat, stopping my backward motion abruptly. This arrested movement caused my shoe to fly off my foot and slide underneath the truck.
On my tenth try I managed to get past the truck, but I still had to retrieve my shoe. That was only accomplished by getting down on my hands and knees and crawling underneath the chassis.
I jerked the car door open and tossed my bag onto the seat. It's heavy and outweighs me by at least a hundred pounds. Its forward motion pulled me off my feet, my purse slipped off my shoulder and fell beside the bag. I fell on top of both. I managed not to spill my water container, the one with a lid requiring a straw to plug the small hole, but I didn't bother to use it that morning. Yep, that would be another problem.
When I yanked my purse from underneath me and tossed it across the seat, the long strap lassoed my water container, expertly sending it across the console and onto the seat. Out of all the infinite possible positions it could land, it landed with the straw hole facing - downward. Now my seat was soaked. Rather than race back into the house for a towel and repeat the artful dance in front of the truck, I grabbed the blanket I keep in the back seat, the one that keeps my legs warm while the car is warming up. Well, I didn't use it for that purpose that morning.
I finally managed to back out of the garage and the comedy routine ended right? Happy endings only happen in fairy tales.
Two blocks from the house, Slow Sally pulled out in front of me. I know her well and I not only recognize the make of her car and her license number, I know her driving habits - intimately. I can't understand how she manages forward momentum with her brakes applied, or why she keeps eight to ten car lengths back from every intersection, ensuring that neither of us get through a single green light. Never mind posted speed limits. Sally always keeps a steady pace ten miles under whatever is posted. I don't think she has ever driven over fifty in a sixty-five, at least not when I've been behind her.
At this point in the morning, I was done with the comedy and seriously entertained a little drama, but quickly squashed that idea. With my current run of bad luck, I'd get stopped and cited for reckless driving and Slow Sally would continue her snail pace all the way to work and arrive far ahead of me.
At least I wasn't late to work. I made it with a whole three minutes to spare.
The next morning I ignored the usual distractions and left the house a full fifteen minutes earlier and managed to skip the entire comedy act of the day before. I even I beat Slow Sally to the intersection and stayed well ahead of her. Of course, with a little bit of a lead, I didn't have to break any speed limits. With all the time I saved, I was at work a full thirty minutes early. Go figure.