Wednesday, April 6, 2011

A Day In the Life of this Writer

Each morning I wake up bright eyed, excited to grab the reigns of a new day, another chance to make my mark on the world around me.  Refreshed and relaxed I jump out of bed, whereupon I throw open my heat-reflecting curtains and smile benevolently at my fellow apartment dwellers as they make their way to a more traditional job working for the man every night and day.  With a content sigh, I dress in my stylish clothes, scrunch my hair into a darling, touchable mess of curls eschewing any makeup as it would detract from my natural dewy countenance.

Mornings are the best time of day.

For the birds.

And over-Botoxed anchorwomen

But never for me.

Nada.

Instead, what usually transpires is the Kiddo jumps on me long before I've gotten the bare minimum 6 hours of recommended sleep because I'll have been up until 2AM writing or reading.  (Although some evenings I get a crack-like addiction for Scrubs, Bones, Arrested Development, or The Closer).

Kiddo commences with the morning wiggle/snuggle/kick routine punctuated by commands of "Get me a little breakfast, but not too much, and a fiber gummy.  Fiber gummies help me poop!"  Sufficiently annoyed,  I stumble on osteoarthritic knees to the kitchen where upon I dispense the cereal o' the day and fiber gummies to the overstimulated Kiddo while I await the almighty coffee maker to brew my drug of choice, usually Brother's Havanna blend which reminds me of Ybor cigar shops. (Never Folgers or Maxwell House).
 
This morning somewhere between cup number 1 and 2 I thought that a change of scenery for the day would be a good thing for me and the Kiddo.  He could run around at my parent's house and I could concentrate at the library down the road.  As I imagined myself pounding out inspired works, I tossed on my far-from- glamorous-but-totally-comfy gray yoga pants and a holey t-shirt.  Easter-egg-hued plaid socks and beat-up sneakers complimented the half-assed pigtails and Nike cap jammed on my head. 

Fashion nightmare, why yes I am? 

The way I see it, if the rich and famous movie stars can dress like a thrift-store-scavenger/nuclear-war survivor while they are trying to hide away from the press, why can't I do the same? 

I could totally rock those outfits.
I'd like to pretend that people will think I'm famous when I'm dressed like a color blind bum but I'm not that delusional, nor do I take myself that seriously.  Honestly, you can't really pull of being famous and mysterious when you are writing in a library that reeks of despair and stale farts.