Wake Up Little Snoozy

As I walk through the door, Justin looks at me like he is watching the Anti-Christ coming into the room to announce the ending of days. I know how I look. My shirt is untucked. My eyes are bloodshot with little crusts still in the corners. My hair is trying very urgently to emphatically point in every direction at once, making me look like a cross between Sideshow Bob and Einstein. And, with my lower back currently in pain from a chronic problem, I am walking like Qausimodo trying to do the Electric Slide.

The smell of coffee brewing. The feel of the Eastern sunrise filtering through the window to warm you cheek. The sound of birds singing sweetly in the trees. These are all wonderful ways to shed the bonds of slumber and bring yourself gently awake in the morning. I, on the other hand, rolled over to look at my clock and realize that work had started twenty minutes ago. Nothing, and I mean nothing, will bring you out of a dead sleep faster than realizing that you are late. There could be an axe wielding murder in your house breaking furniture and screaming for blood and you would wake up groggy and asking yourself “What is that noise in the other room?” But if you partially open your eyes and see that you are late, then groggy goes right out the window and panic makes your legs work even before you can feel your toes.

Waking up in this fashion is always a bad sign for the forthcoming day. So I was not surprised as I emerged from the office bathroom, hair freshly slicked back with copious amounts of water, to hear Justin say, “Man you have got hear this crazy message that a crazy lady left on the machine last night.” Let me relate this message to you.

“This is Mrs. ________ . I have one of your rental cars. I got in it tonight and there is an oil smell. I want you to bring me a car in the morning. I know you open at 7:30, and I need to be at an appointment at 8:00. Bring me a car. I have an appointment at 8:00. Bring me a car. I have an appointment at 8:00. Bring me a car. I have an appointment at 8:00. Bring me a car. I have an appointment at 8:00."

This is not a typo. She really repeated the statement four times. Now, since I woke up at 7:50 and walked into the office at 7:59, a feat that I accomplished by forgoing any type of morning preparation such as showering or brushing my teeth and breaking untold speed laws, I knew that there was no way that we were going to get her a car by 8:00. But, in the spirit of trying to give good customer service, we made a valiant effort and showed up at her house at 8:06 with a new car. Our car was still sitting in the driveway, and she was no where to be found. We checked the car for oil leaks and found nothing. We checked the house and found nothing. So either she got a ride with a friend or neighbor or we will find her in the midst of rigor mortis tomorrow when we go to get the car. This is just what I need on my mind to make the rest of the day slide by smoothly. (sarcasm dripping on the keyboard)

I did come to the conclusion that we, as humans, do posses the ability to accomplish things that in normal circumstances would be deemed impossible or improbable. It usually takes me about fifteen minutes to prepare myself in the morning and my car ride to work usually takes seven minutes. I’ll let you do the math. This seems like untapped potential that, if cultivated, could allow us to complete an entire 24 hour day in like…87 minutes. If we could bypass social norms like hygiene, stop trying our best to look good for the benefit or others, and disregard all speed limits without fear of repercussions then I believe that we could get anywhere in a third of the time that it normally takes. This is very exciting news for pizza delivery drivers. (Though I’m pretty sure that most disregard the first two anyway)

Another thing that I realized was that I wasn’t tired or wore down all day. I didn’t need any caffeine to keep me at my peak level of half-assedness. This revelation, however, is very detrimental news to both Juan Valdez and to the makers of the llama-piss-tasting energy drinks that package pluck in cans with names like Catapult, Volt, Crimson Male Bovine, and Donkey Punch Lemonade. This is why I am even now getting a knock on the door from some man in a business suit who is accompanied by another guy wearing shorts who keeps yelling “Extreme!!!!” at the top of his lungs and continuously downing can after can of a liquid called Crunk.

I have to go and hide now.