ready or knot

Most days my mornings go something like this: beautiful, peaceful, blissful sleep rudely interrupted by two Evil Alarms solely set on keeping me in a job, if getting me to work on time is the last thing they do. From there it's a blur of semi-consciousness that follows me through Facebook over breakfast to throwing on six outfits, to throwing off six outfits, to seeing Evil Alarm number 2 sitting stoically in the corner glaring the 4-minute too-fast time to throw me into a state of utmost panic before realizing that, while outfit number six and a half will have to suffice, nothing has been done about the Mane.

The Mane is really rather plentiful these days, which makes life difficult because it thinks it's got more clout. Who are we kidding? It does.

I stand and stare the mirror and the Mane stares back. This is my cue to utter my first vocalization of the day:

"What are we going to do with you?"

The Mane continues staring.

"Would you like to behave and be a good little Mane?"

The Mane shakes itself. Negative.

"Would you like to look presentable so the rest of the world can see you?"

Another no.

"Then I'm just going to have to put you up in a big, big clip."

This is what the Mane has been waiting for. It is its trump card. It knows it looks horrendous in big, big clips and that they will never last. It obliges me for a second, though, knowing it will soon get its way in the end. It nudges me toward the mirror and is immediately let down again. Vindictive little Mane.

Evil Alarm coughs loudly in the corner. This brings me back to square one.

"What are we going to do with you!?" I wail to the Mane.

It shrugs.

"Fine, you win," I say. "What do you want to do today?"

This is just what the Mane has been waiting to hear. It knows it's back in control. It is in cahoots with Evil Alarm. Though I'm yet to catch any cash actually changing hands, it's clearly true. You would cry too, ... oh, wait.

The Mane looks hopefully at the sink.

"What, you want water?" I ask.

It seems it does. I throw it upside down first as punishment for its rudeness, but then throw water on it as it begins to allow itself to waft a brief way into submission. Two seconds later it is throwing a fit again. I attack it with a little clip. It begs for more water. This goes on for thirty vigorous seconds until Evil Alarm nonchalantly gags itself in the corner.

"That's it, that's all the time we've got, we're going now, ready or not," I tell the Mane. "You're a disgrace, but I've got to bring you anyway. Hurry up now!"

We rush to de-gag Evil Alarm, who has now resorted to epileptic seizures of despair. It's really entirely too melodramatic for its own good.

I throw on my coat, unplug the little heater that-couldn't-but-tries-anyway and grab my bag. The coat, the bag, the Mane and I rush down the stairs, past the workmen fixing the stairs and up the hill to the bus stop. There we wait, breathless, on the other side of the street of the bus stop as 3 buses to the city drive past. When the little green light finally appears we tear across the street, root around manically for our buried bus ticket and attempt to flag down a bus that has no intention of stopping at our stop. Discouraged, we resort to checking the timetable, during which time another bus sails past, happily ignoring us. We turn around again and find it was the bus scheduled to come in 3 minutes that happened to be early and indisposed to put a damper on its own glorious on-timeness. The next bus doesn't come for 10 minutes. We sit down in despair and I begin to write a list of all the reasons the morning has been a disaster. This reminds me of a to-do list I need to write, which reminds me to write a list of people I need to buy cards for, which reminds me to write list of invitations I need to send, which reminds me to write list of friends in Sydney, which reminds me to write a list of Facebook status updates I could use, which reminds me to write a list of blogs I could write, which reminds me that I should look up and see if there is a bus. There isn't, but I'm out-listed for the moment and decide to simply sit back and be prepared for whenever the next bus does decide to show itself.

To ready myself, I adjust my coat and bag, and pull out my bus ticket so it's ready to go. I fidget and wait and try to look busy and unconcerned for the remaining 90 seconds until a bus finally pulls up and decides, quite generously, to stop. I get on, insert my ticket, and hearing a series of loud beeps, realize it expired yesterday. I frantically tear the inside of my bag apart, pulling out a water bottle, a book, a magazine, a deck of cards, a camera, a pair of sunglasses, a pair of back-up glasses, three used Kleenex and some spare Tylenol before finding my wallet at the bottom. Trying not to drop everything, I locate the new bus pass in my wallet, insert it, throw everything else back in the bag and rush as fast as I can to the back of the bus, where I spend the remainder of the trip putting everything back where it goes in my bag and relocating the ticket so it can be used for the train.

The train is, miraculously, only 1 minute away from departing when I arrive, so I dash madly down through the crowd and jump on in the nick of time, to have 6 more minutes of calm before the storm. These I generally use to fall back and regroup and text to let someone know I'm running just a wee bit later than intended. Then I generally decide it's a reasonable time to go through and delete old text messages, which keeps me at least looking socially suave and sophisticated until I reach Museum and the final mad dash of the morning begins.

I rush into work, wait for the lift and emerge, mostly unscathed, in the staffroom.

"Kim!" someone calls. "Your hair looks gorgeous! How in the world do you get it to look so lovely?"