few
miles.
Climbing into bed, I make a big fuss about
the covers, flopping around angrily until everything around me is
situated exactly right. And of course, now that I’m comfortable, I
remember I need to plug my cell phone into charge and set the alarm
clock.
“Fuck,” I whisper loudly.
Stomping over to the dresser, I collect my cell phone and furiously
plug it into its charger. Then I program my alarm for the morning,
being sure it’s early enough I’ll be able to hit the snooze button
a couple times before actually having to be out of bed. Lying back
down after turning out the lights, I sigh, all my anger from the
day completely spent at this point. Rolling onto my side, I remind
myself, You are near a break through, you
are near a break through , before closing
my eyes and completely blacking out.
Chapter 9
Beep, beep, beep.
The incessant noise of the alarm clock
rouses me long enough to read the time: 0600. I roll over and hit
the snooze button. Twenty minutes later, I’m out of options when
the dreaded beeping begins again. Dragging myself into a sitting
position, I fire off a string of curses under my breath for the
indecency of having to get up before ten.
Turning off the alarm clock, I stand up and
stretch, then head to the bathroom long enough to turn on the
shower before climbing back under the covers to wait for the water
to warm up. Anything less than scalding isn’t worth getting
undressed for.
I know it’s pathetic, but I am absolutely no
good before 9 a.m. There is no amount of hot water or caffeine that
can overcome my mental funk in the mornings. And conversation is
out. My family knows from years of experience I ignore all forms of
communication in the morning. I had one prayer as an undergraduate
student: that I wouldn’t get a chatty morning person for a
roommate. God, who has an enormous sense of humor, only halfway
answered my prayer. I got Melanie as a roommate. Now she most
certainly is a morning person, but, being like a sister, she was
well aware of my no-talking-before-9a.m. rule. If my life had an
equation, it would be simple: Gwen plus time less than or equal to
8:59 a.m. equals don’t talk to me! Lucky for me I have the next
hour and a half to myself.
When I finally get into the shower, I linger
under the hot spray long after I’ve finished washing. It’s always
hard to leave the shower. Instinctively I know it will be cold in
the bathroom. But, thanks to my stunt with the snooze button, I now
have limited time to get ready for work, so I will myself to reach
out the door and grab my towel. Swiftly drying off, I bound into
the closet to get dressed. When it comes to attire, working in a
lab definitely has its pros and cons. Pro: I can wear whatever I
want to and from work. Con: once at work, I will have to change
into attire that meets current safety standards before entering the
lab.
Translation: I spend fifty percent of my day
looking like a giant marshmallow. My revenge usually comes in the
form of a cute pair of pumps, jeans, and a classy top. Today is no
exception. I top off my jeans with a deep green dolman sweater over
an iridescent tank. Some days I will throw a little jewelry into
the mix, but I can’t wear it into the lab and it’s hard to keep
track of anything that small at work. Flashy sunglasses have become
my staple accessory instead.
While dressing, I take the opportunity to
reassess my injuries from the previous evening’s escapade.
Shrugging my shoulders, I notice the right one is a little tender
and nicely bruised. Thankfully my outfit selection nicely hides the
glorious purple splotch on my shoulder.
Shoes in one hand, phone in the other, I
pause for a moment in the bedroom doorframe and carefully screen
the surrounding vicinity for fall hazards. Satisfied I will likely
make it to the kitchen unscathed, I proceed down the hallway. The
aroma of fresh coffee greets me and intensifies the closer I get to
the front room. Silently I send up a prayer
miles.
Climbing into bed, I make a big fuss about
the covers, flopping around angrily until everything around me is
situated exactly right. And of course, now that I’m comfortable, I
remember I need to plug my cell phone into charge and set the alarm
clock.
“Fuck,” I whisper loudly.
Stomping over to the dresser, I collect my cell phone and furiously
plug it into its charger. Then I program my alarm for the morning,
being sure it’s early enough I’ll be able to hit the snooze button
a couple times before actually having to be out of bed. Lying back
down after turning out the lights, I sigh, all my anger from the
day completely spent at this point. Rolling onto my side, I remind
myself, You are near a break through, you
are near a break through , before closing
my eyes and completely blacking out.
Chapter 9
Beep, beep, beep.
The incessant noise of the alarm clock
rouses me long enough to read the time: 0600. I roll over and hit
the snooze button. Twenty minutes later, I’m out of options when
the dreaded beeping begins again. Dragging myself into a sitting
position, I fire off a string of curses under my breath for the
indecency of having to get up before ten.
Turning off the alarm clock, I stand up and
stretch, then head to the bathroom long enough to turn on the
shower before climbing back under the covers to wait for the water
to warm up. Anything less than scalding isn’t worth getting
undressed for.
I know it’s pathetic, but I am absolutely no
good before 9 a.m. There is no amount of hot water or caffeine that
can overcome my mental funk in the mornings. And conversation is
out. My family knows from years of experience I ignore all forms of
communication in the morning. I had one prayer as an undergraduate
student: that I wouldn’t get a chatty morning person for a
roommate. God, who has an enormous sense of humor, only halfway
answered my prayer. I got Melanie as a roommate. Now she most
certainly is a morning person, but, being like a sister, she was
well aware of my no-talking-before-9a.m. rule. If my life had an
equation, it would be simple: Gwen plus time less than or equal to
8:59 a.m. equals don’t talk to me! Lucky for me I have the next
hour and a half to myself.
When I finally get into the shower, I linger
under the hot spray long after I’ve finished washing. It’s always
hard to leave the shower. Instinctively I know it will be cold in
the bathroom. But, thanks to my stunt with the snooze button, I now
have limited time to get ready for work, so I will myself to reach
out the door and grab my towel. Swiftly drying off, I bound into
the closet to get dressed. When it comes to attire, working in a
lab definitely has its pros and cons. Pro: I can wear whatever I
want to and from work. Con: once at work, I will have to change
into attire that meets current safety standards before entering the
lab.
Translation: I spend fifty percent of my day
looking like a giant marshmallow. My revenge usually comes in the
form of a cute pair of pumps, jeans, and a classy top. Today is no
exception. I top off my jeans with a deep green dolman sweater over
an iridescent tank. Some days I will throw a little jewelry into
the mix, but I can’t wear it into the lab and it’s hard to keep
track of anything that small at work. Flashy sunglasses have become
my staple accessory instead.
While dressing, I take the opportunity to
reassess my injuries from the previous evening’s escapade.
Shrugging my shoulders, I notice the right one is a little tender
and nicely bruised. Thankfully my outfit selection nicely hides the
glorious purple splotch on my shoulder.
Shoes in one hand, phone in the other, I
pause for a moment in the bedroom doorframe and carefully screen
the surrounding vicinity for fall hazards. Satisfied I will likely
make it to the kitchen unscathed, I proceed down the hallway. The
aroma of fresh coffee greets me and intensifies the closer I get to
the front room. Silently I send up a prayer
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