I’ve become quite adept at convincing myself, in a drowsy haze, that I’ll get up early in the morning. Once I’m snuggled up in my comfy bed, putting off whatever it is that I need to do is far easier than leaving my warm nest. Despite my track record of late arrivals and decidedly un-morning-person-like tendencies, the promise of sweet, sweet sleep tricks me into believing anything is possible. Get up at 5:30 a.m. for a jog? Easy peasy! Rotate my tires at 6 a.m.? No problem! Unfortunately when the fabled morning comes, I snooze button my way to 15 minutes before I need to be at work, at which point I seriously consider whether I really need to brush my hair and/or teeth and moments later, burst forth into the cold morning air, skirt tucked into my undies and sporting two different shoes.
And so it came to pass yesterday. I vowed to get up at 6:30 a.m., pack my lunch, and make breakfast, complete with mimosas and waffles I’d have delivered from Belgium since I had so much extra time. Unfailingly I fell nearly an hour-and-a-half short of my goal but still managed to pack my lunch, including condiments and utensils. Beaming with pride at my small accomplishment, I left for work. Unfortunately a mile or two into my journey, I realized I’d left my carefully-packed lunch at home. Such is the destiny of a reject from The Academy of the Ante Meridiemly Advanced.