The clock read 6:08 am. She overslept again. Sandy crawled out of bed, let out a fart, then picked the wedgie from her butt crack. There’s really no pleasant way to put it. That’s what happened.
“Good morning to me,” she groaned in a bitchy voice. Self-directed sarcasm is apparently a thing now. Shame on you for not keeping up with the trends.
Getting out of bed was the easy part; entering the hallway and traveling, ninja style, past the kid’s room to take a much-needed pee would require exceptional skill. The recruitment of additional brain cells required to strategically place her footing oh-so-gently to prevent the wood floors from creaking was pretty much a matter of life and death.
If she didn’t maneuver on the floor boards just right, it would ignite an explosive chain reaction that would begin by the kid waking up too early and totally screwing Sandy out of her workout. This apocalyptic event would conclude by the earth dislodging from its axis and our planet spinning wildly out of control throughout the universe.
Dear gawd, please don’t creak the floor boards.
Sandy pulled back her brunette bed-head into a messy bun and took that courageous first step into the hallway.
One foot maneuvers to the left. Now turn the right ankle inward in an uncomfortable, unnatural position for a 2-foot leap forward onto the toes only. Shhh! Quiet now. Keep the arms out for balance and hold breath. If breath is not held, the extra heaviness of oxygen moving in and out of the lungs is enough to cause weighted pressure on the floor boards.
Whew. Sandy made it to the bathroom with impressive, silent precision.
Just as she was about to close the bathroom door, the junk in her trunk bumped John’s electro-shaver off the edge of the sink. Dammit! The shaver broke into 3 large pieces onto the floor — the kind of brokenness she hoped Krazy Glue would fix in a hurry if John wasn’t already stomping up the stairs to investigate the clanging.
John has Sasquatch feet dipped in concrete. So much for Sandy’s silent maneuvers across the floor boards. It didn’t make a difference now. She could’ve bowled herself across the hall instead, hitting every wall like a human pinball. Surely the earth is falling off its axis at this very moment. Please put on your crash helmet.
“Mom-meeeee. Where are you? I want youuuu.”
Oh great. It was the girl-child, Jilly. She has the morning voice of a 70-year-old chain smoking grandpa on valium. It’s rather unsavory for such a cute kid.
Considering John’s electro-shaver problem, he didn’t utter a word. The glazed over, psychotic look in Sandy’s eyes was enough for him to pretend it never happened. He picked up the shaver pieces in dead silence. Sandy headed down the stairs, totally ignoring Jilly’s beckoning. The child would find her anyway.
6:14 am now. Workout must be done by 6:45 am. Workout clothes not even on yet. This is not good.
At the bottom of the steps Sandy sensed that planet Krypton had also fallen of its axis. The living room — her workout space — was in shambles. Broken crayons everywhere. A roll of toilet paper streamed across the couch. Why? No one really knows. Construction paper cut into 150,498 tiny confetti pieces all over the floor (yes, she counted). DVDs strewn everywhere, including the one they bought last weekend, now cracked in half from being stepped on. A bowl of Trix cereal upside down in a pool of milk on the area rug.
It was like a scene out of Sesame Street meets Hoarders.
“What the hell!!” Sandy’s bitch-voice rose 15 decibels and redirected itself at the people responsible: Jilly and John.
Jilly’s nickname is The Destroyer. No explanation necessary. Last night John hung out with Jilly so Sandy could hit the hay early. After tucking Jilly in way too late (did he even notice the mess?), he ate a sandwich and fell asleep on the floor watching TV.
Sandy’s unexpected morning maid chores ate into her workout time like a chained-up billy goat eating its first meal in weeks. But there was just enough time for some quick stretching. Better than nothing. Better than whining. Better than being all woe-is-me about the situation.
Sandy gave herself a quick attitude adjustment in an effort to lose the bitch-face, and squeezed in a few successful minutes of stretching. At 6:45 she headed back upstairs to deal with The Destroyer and Silent John before getting ready for work.
But wait… she stepped on something hard & crusty. Upon closer examination it proved to be a piece of burnt bacon from last night’s BLT’s. There was a brief, zero-point-five seconds when she thought about eating it. Because bacon makes everything all better.