March 10, 2009
I have no idea what's happened to me, but I spent the whole of yesterday skiing my brains out, and now, all I can think about is napping. I honestly don't know what it is about sliding down a hill on a pair of waxed sticks that zaps every last ounce of energy from my soul, but let me promise you, it really, truly does.
Maybe it's the constant, unwavering focus on trying to stay alive. I've heard that can burn a lot of calories.
Anywho, I had one hell of a time getting out of bed this morning. When my alarm went off, I took the situation very seriously and unplugged that silly waste-of-a-thing. Snooze, you see, is for ambitious people. But unplugging? Unplugging is reserved for those of us who have achieved an advanced stage of complacency in life. If you do it too, then congratulations, welcome to the underachievers club--don't worry, we never have any meetings.
It took a urine-soaked three-year-old to rouse me from me slumber. He shook me awake and I sat up with a start. I was like, "Dude! Don't mug me! You can have my purse!" I know, kind of a strange reaction...but I was sleeping hard...and he smelled exactly like a New York City subway station.
By the time I was up n' at em, I had no time for my regular morning routine--toss in a load of laundry, pray, read my scriptures (I know, you're impressed), feed the dog, take a shower, etc--and as usual, the scripture reading and prayer were the first and second things to get cut (I know, not very impressive).
I decided to make up for my missed prayer after I dropped James off at daycare. Once he was securely inside, boots backwards, and toy tools in hand, I got in my car, shut the door, took a deep breath and started to pray.
By the time I reached my office, I had yet to finish my plea. I had asked The Lord to fix the failing economy, but I hadn't yet gotten to the part where I would ask God to help 1,000 people hurt their backs in central Maine, mysteriously slip one of Jared's cards into each of their pockets, and help his female patients develop unrelenting crushes on my husband, leading to routine, long-term chiropractic care.
What? A girl has a right to her prayers.
I like to pray out loud, but come now, I was sitting in my parking lot at work. I was genuinely worried that people passing by my car in the early morning rush would think I was insane if I was seen talking to myself--and clearly, I am not.
So, in a moment of personal revelation and spiritual clarity, I found a solution to my predicament. I would continue my prayer but pretend was I was talking on my cell phone.
Pure freaking genius.
Except for one thing: I forgot my cell phone in the bathroom this morning. (So what? I like to chat n' poo. Sue me.)
So, in a fervent effort to continue my conversation with God, I picked up my wallet, placed it next to my left ear, pretended it was a cell phone, and prayed my brains out. I even used exasperated hand motions in an effort to increase the authenticity.
When I was all done I straightened up my credit cards and headed inside. As I stepped though the front double-door, I was intercepted by a nice woman who works down the hall. As coincidence would have it, we use the same daycare provider.
"Amy," she said. "Thank goodness you're here! I need to call Miss Nancy about Jane's medication, but my cell phone is completely dead and that's the only place I have her number."
"Oh gosh," I said. "What do you need?"
"You must have Nancy's number in your cell phone, right? Can I borrow it for a second to call her?
"Oh crap," I replied. "I accidentally left my cell phone at home this morning."
"What? No you didn't," she insisted. "I saw you talking on your phone in the parking lot."