Patience.

So, it's true.  I'm not known for my patience.  I'm not.


I'm really, really not.


While most of every one of my friends and family knows this, it is still something we can chuckle about - enjoy a little light laugh over.  No one (to my knowledge) is ready to stage an intervention.


This leads to a confession: I'm a real *sshole on my subway commute. I am, but no one has known this but me.  Well, no one knew until I decided to write this post, but the word's out.  I'm a real jerk. I have no patience for bad behavior... or behavior that doesn't take others into account.  And by others, I mean me.


My survival method is New York City is to mumble under my breath or scream in my head, whichever allows more emotional bile to escape my body in a given moment. This behavior can be non-stop as I shuttle from home to work and home again.


Often, I have got a running commentary in my head that is so impatient and bitter, so unlike the self I like to admit to. When I witness behavior like in the pictures below (and p.s. these are borrowed images that roughly illustrate my experience) I find myself silently screeching things like:

"I really love the sound of your clipping your nails across the car from me." 

"Kid, your cuteness wore off before you opened your mouth to sing the entire score of "Annie."  And that is not a jungle gym.  Sit down, precious snowflake." 






 "Thanks for buying cheap headphones and cranking the volume so you could share your awful music with the entire subway car." 







•   



"Your standing smack dab in the middle of the doorway really helps speed up the loading and unloading.  Thanks, Mensa Men."  








"Hey thanks, lady leaning against the pole so other people can't hold on. I'll just jam my knuckles in around your back fat." 






 "Wow, you two, watching you make out and rub each other's bodies like genie lamps gives me exactly the lift I need in the morning."

"Stopping at the top of the stairs right in front of me so you can check your texts really helps me slow down and relax. Ommmm!"
(I used Kim Kardashian for this because she is my nemesis.  It only seemed right.)

And the kids who perform their dance-acrobatics show on the train... Man, hearing the words "Show time, show TIME!" makes me want to punch someone.

So. Last week, I went back for my 4th class  death wish at CrossFit Harlem.  I won't go into the entire routine, but know that we donned 50 lb. weight vests and did death squats while throwing 14 lb. medicine balls against the wall.  It was a BLAST. I celebrated the fact that I'd survived, but the shock wore off the next morning when I realized I couldn't bend anything.  I lumbered to the subway like Frankenstein, arms straight out ahead of me to balance and brace for a fall. And wouldn't you know, I became one of those people.  I couldn't help it; I couldn't move!  I had to stand smack in the middle of the doorway.  I had to lean against the pole and pretend not to feel the knuckles grinding into my back fat.  I started up the stairs in my regular 1st position because I like to run up the steps, but my legs seized up like the Tin Man's.


I think I heard some silent screaming behind me.

Pause

"The really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline, and effort, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty little unsexy ways, every day."
David Foster Wallace

When I first came across this quote, I thought I'd use it for a post about the personal relationships in my life. Daily, my parents, my husband, my brother, and my friends all offer me the freedom to be myself by making space for me to fail and grow. They make allowances for me, they sacrifice for me, in the most banal, trivial ways. But those seemingly small allowances add up to something invaluable to me. Amazingly, they do this often without any need for immediate compensation. They live with the hope that I will hold up my end of the social compact and return the favor, but the score is by no means even.

This weekend, I can't help but see these words differently. I am humbled by all the ways our servicemen and servicewomen uphold freedom for our nation and for others around the world. Through their attention, awareness, discipline and effort, they sacrifice for us day after day in the most unsexy ways.

It is easy and convenient for me to remember their sacrifices on these big, shiny event-filled holidays. May I do a better job remembering them always.

Mom

I asked my husband, "What do you think is the best quality I inherited from my mom?"  Without pausing for breath he quipped, "Well, you definitely didn't get her patience."

Very true; painfully so. But ha ha.  Yes, I laughed at that.  I tried to show I had a sense of humor, but quickly (remember the patience problem) moved back to pressing him.  He said, "Give me a moment to think about it."  I stood nearby, patiently waiting a whole few seconds, thinking that he'd be able to connect my mom and me somehow, but time stood still.

This didn't look good for me.

I'd like to say I left the scene to give him space to think, but I was feeling a bit prickly.
After 90 seconds, I approached him again.  "Any luck?" I asked.
"Still thinking," he said.
"You do think I have some good qualities, don't you?"
"Well of course, or I wouldn't have married you."
"Huh," I grunted.

Later I spoke with my mom.  She was on her way back from her 50th year college reunion.  Imagine?!  She was on a layover at the airport and texted me to say hi.  (By the way, I love that my 70-something year old mom texts 45-year old me. How cool is that?) I texted her back, nonchalantly saying that she could call me if she wanted; I was home alone because Mike had taken a drive.

God, I wanted my mom to call me.  I wanted my mom.

She called.  She never fails.  We talked about her weekend, which sounded reflective in a way I can only imagine.  What is it to reflect back 50 years to when you were in college?  What is it to tick off the successes, but also the deaths, the illnesses?  What is it to remember youth and to see decline?  Talking with her reminded me of a time I was speaking with her mother, my grandma Erickson, and Grandma was saying very matter-of-factly, "I'm one of the last of my friends.  Everyone has died."  Grandma Erickson volunteered at the senior living center and helped people far younger than she was.  She watched people wither and go. It's a brutal reality.

At that moment, I didn't want to be a voice on the end of the phone. I wanted to stop time, to sit across from my mom and hold her hand.  Not that she needed me, but that kind of reflection - one of really seeing what's in front of you - seems too honest and cruel.  My mom's nowhere near there.  Right?  She is vibrant and lovely and ALIVE for a long, long, long time.

I listened as my mom dealt with this somewhat painful reflection.  But shamefully, as I listened I wanted something from her.

"So, Mom, what do you think is the best quality that I got from you?"  It felt dirty to even ask; to plead for something good.

After a moment, she replied, "Your empathy."

And I wanted to cry.
Because my mother had said what I wished for most,
because she valued that part of me so much,
because even while in her own emotional churning, she was as generous as ever.

After I got off the phone with her, she texted me.
"Kindness would also apply! xoxom"

I will never be the woman my mom is, but I know I will die trying.

May you all know the love that I know from my mom.

=

I have been having a hard time writing funny lately.  Normally lightheartedness comes easy.  I play the fop well.  And while I'd prefer an amusing post, this has been weighing heavy, and my struggle with it has been incredibly humbling.

Somewhere along in my learning, I was told that we should have many opinions, some beliefs, and few convictions.  If we start with just opinions, we can recognize what is both strong and faulty in our own way of thinking, and we can be appropriately swayed.  We can learn a thing or two, that's what open-mindedness can do!  It's good to have opinions.

With time and reinforcement, opinions can shift to beliefs; something more substantial. We nurture our understanding and get different perspectives, and decide actively what to believe.

Finally, beliefs solidify into convictions. They are solid and unmoving; they are our foundation. They are a part of us.  They make us who we are.

Marriage equality is a conviction for me.  I am not merely of the opinion that it is right.  It is not just a belief for me.  It is a conviction.

My previous marriage was interfaith.  Adam was a Jewish kid from the Bronx, and I was a Connecticut/Iowa WASP.  We were young kids in love, so I didn't give our different religions much thought.  I thought love trumped all. After sharing news of my engagement,  I was told point blank by one of my close friends (at the time) that I was stealing from her pot.  She said that Jews should marry their own kind in order to continue their religious identity and value. I tried to explain that I actually was more connected to Judaism than my soon-to-be-(ex)-husband was, and that I was planning on instilling the knowledge and value of his religion - and my own - in our children.  I did not manage to assuage any of her discomfort.

I am now in an interracial marriage.  My husband is African-American (although he refers to himself as "brown, baby, brown"). I don't think of it consciously as interracial, just like I didn't think of my first marriage as interfaith; I think of it as marriage. Did you know that in 1967 when a Federal law was enacted to protect interracial marriages, there were still 16 states with prohibitive laws in place?  Oh, but the discomfort lives on.  Look, we live in a country where just last week, a store owner called our president a n*gger on his store's sign. My husband and I had a woman register her disapproval of us by yelling and spitting on the ground in front of us. I keep making people uncomfortable with whom I love, apparently.

The reason for my conviction that marriage should be a right for all is this: Everything beautiful and pure and selfless and committed and joyful and loving that I have learned about relationships, has been built and reinforced by ALL types of couples in my life.  Straight, interracial, intergenerational, interfaith, gay and lesbian, you name it - I know them and love them for all I've learned from them.  I thank God that I've learned from them how to be part of a happy, healthy, successful couple myself.

There are moments I look at my husband and I am breathless.  I can't believe what it is to love him and be loved by him.
How could I ever deny another person of this? Not just the right to love, but the legal, ethical, moral right to to be acknowledged by the state, by banks, by health providers, by the church, by the military, and by the public. Not only am I unable to deny it, I must fight for their rights.

Love is humbling.

Returning to the Scene

Update:

I went back for my second CrossFit class last Tuesday.
It's Sunday and I am still having trouble using my hand to push my glasses up the bridge of my nose.

It's a sad, sad state of affairs.

I won't go into details of the workout, but let's just say it was like water-boarding without the fun.

I spoke with my husband after Tuesday's class and he reminded me that CrossFit is training for Marines... Marines who are 18 years old.  Mike then asked me, "How old is everyone in your class?" I hadn't thought about it until he asked. "I don't know," I said, "20's, 30's... I think I'm the oldest."

Yes, 45 is a lot older than 18.
There was a pause that gave me pause.
Maybe I didn't think this through as thoroughly as I should have.

...

I spoke to my parents on the phone the following day.  The second day of recovery is the worst.  I described the hour-long class to them, and after the snickering laughter (and do not judge my parents' support of me on this story, please), there was a pause (again!).  My father then said, "Well, we called to get your social security number for your life insurance policy, but obviously we'll be outliving you, so this is a moot point."

Lovely.

At school, I tried to explain what I was doing in CrossFit to my students (because I couldn't move and needed help) and Dylana said, "Why didn't you just LEAVE? Why did you stay?" The whole class turned to me and waited for the logical answer I didn't have.

There was that pause again.
Ugh.

...

Here's the thing.

I don't believe I'm 45.  I don't.  Come on. How many of you really identify with your age in years?  Anyone?! I understand those YouTube videos of some senior citizen standing up to kick some hoodlum's *ss.  I get it. (Did you see the guy take down a thug on a NYC crosstown bus?)


Here are the other things.

• I have a hot, fit husband who's older than I am.  
• My brother runs faster and longer than I do and he has a hot, fit doctor wife. 
• One of my closest female friends (and athletic partner) is 28.  
• I try and hang with some majorly competitive male friends who do ultra triathlons.  
• I come from a previous career in theater and those people are AGELESS. 

Most importantly, though, here's the final thing.

I believe I can be more than I am now.  After all, we are our stories.  If the story I tell myself is that I'm mid-40's and I should be winding down, well, then there's a Snuggie and a Barcalounger waiting for me.

So, I'm going to continue to return to the scene.  It may only be once a week.  It may be a humbling beat-down every single time.  Who am I kidding?  It WILL be a humbling beat-down every single time.  But I will continue to return.

I want to write my own story.

A Second Chance

Riding my bicycle this morning, I spotted him.

Prophet.

If you've read the previous blog entry, you'll know that Prophet is my neighborhood homeless friend.  I've been wondering about him a lot lately.  Today, he finally appeared, not at the park where I've normally seen him, but a block away at the corner of 135th and Frederick Douglass.  His back was to me, but I knew it was him.   There he was, that gentle giant, head to toe in black rags and a giant dark blanket around him like a royal cloak.

I couldn't contain myself.  "Prophet!"  I yelled.  He turned and lit up with a smile to match mine.  I stopped my bicycle in front of him and he reached out for my hands.
"I have missed you!" he said.
"I've missed you, too." And I had. "Where have you been?"
"Oh, here and over at mbrrrbbmm."  I didn't get the word, but he gestured across the street.
"I've been looking for you at the park."
"Oh, I will be there later."
"How are you?" I asked.
"Wonderful.  Wonderful!  But you. How are you? How have you been?  Are you well?" He peppered me with questions.
"I'm great, and I'm so glad to see you again." Everything felt lighter.

We stood for a moment smiling, holding each other's hands.  Then Prophet said...

"When you are ready.  Please come."

"I will, I will," I nodded and I really meant it. He nodded back.  I shifted on my bike and got back on the road.

Two hours later, as I rode back uptown, I started thinking of questions I wanted to ask him.  I wanted to hear his story, wanted to hear his thoughts and ideas.  I was ready - finally - to stop and talk. The park appeared in the distance and I surveyed the park benches.  I slowed down and scanned the area.  I searched of Prophet, but there was no sign of him.

I was disappointed but not disheartened.  I'm looking forward to that talk.  We all need something to look forward to.

Not 20 anymore. Not even close.

I have to type quickly, because my muscles are starting to seize up and I'm not sure how long I have.

Do you hear that?  That's the sound of muscles screaming.  I never knew they did that.  They do.  Oh, they do~

I took my first CrossFit class tonight.

Have you heard of CrossFit?  You essentially pay someone to put you into traction.  That's probably unfair, because if I were in better shape, maybe I wouldn't be in such trouble now.  But here's the thing.  I  think - well, I thought - that I am in relatively decent shape.  I run!  I cycle! I ski!  I don't double over after walking up four flights of stairs!  I was sure I could hold my own in a one hour CrossFit class.  Puh-lease.

And then I met Syn at CrossFit Harlem.
There's a reason that their logo includes a skeleton.

The WOD (Workout of the Day) was "cardio," and when Syn wrote that on the blackboard, I inwardly exhaled.  Cardio is mine. I own cardio.

Ha!

First, we ran two laps around the armory next door.  Easy, breezy, beautiful.  I started feeling cocky.  I got this, I smirked.

Uh-oh.  Then we did cardio with weights, and not just my usual 3-5 pounds... no.  Syn gave me a 35 lb. bar with 15 lbs. on each side (that's 65 lbs. for my fellow lazy mathematicians).  I had to take that from chest to over my head 100 times in 6 minutes.  I'll tell you, time has never been so relative.  I'd read on the CrossFit Harlem website NOT to complain and NOT to give up, so I was prepared.  I lifted that bar 12 whole times over my head and then struggled to lift it the remaining 88 times about 3 inches off my chest, but I did it. Humbling.

p.s. The woman in front of me did a full 100 like she was brushing her teeth.  I'll be so sore tomorrow I won't be able to brush mine without whimpering.

Oh, but we weren't done with that bar yet.  Syn had us take the plate weight off, so that we were left with the weight bar.  We had to hold the bar at our chests and go down into a squat, and stay there until all nine of us had been checked for form.  I don't squat that low to tie a shoe anymore.  Every part of me was shaking. I was hoping that alone was the exercise, but at this point, I knew better.  Syn yelled at the other newbie and I was relieved that someone else was the last of the herd.  Terrible, but true.  Thank God for a weaker one!

Sure enough, there was more.  This was our starting position for the next 100. Our next round was to be lifting the bar from a low squat to up over our heads in a popcorn-popping, cardio-fast motion.  FAST!  Syn said to keep track of our number.  I may have miscounted.  A couple of the consecutive numbers in my head may have stuck together so that one lift over my head counted for two.  When I put down my bar after 100, it may have been a creative 100, but I will tell you, I am guilt-free.

Next up. Syn told us to grab weight vests.  I leaned down to pick one up with one hand, because really, what's it going to weigh?  20 lbs. tops, right?  Try 50.  I couldn't lift the thing over my head by myself, especially after the weightapalooza I'd just experienced.  I can't remember the name of the woman who helped me because I was delirious, but someone strapped me in, and we then had to run another 3 laps around the armory.

I managed to not finish in last place, which I felt was a huge coup.  I was so high at the end of the class that my body hadn't registered the impending pain.CrossFit Harlem did ask me to sign a waiver AFTER the class, and I could barely move my arms, but I still felt (or didn't feel) pretty good.

So, what did I decide to do?  That's right... jog on home.  I made it two blocks and then slowed to a lope.

I waddled up the 3 flights to our apartment, B-lined to the bathroom for ibuprofen, then collapsed.

Mike brought home a half-case of tequila and asked me to store the bottles above the kitchen cabinets.  I've never, ever come so close to dropping those bottles, which I must say are the closest things to children that I'll ever know.  But tonight, it was dangerous.  Dangerous!

Anyway, the bottom line is... I'm tightening up like the Tin Man.  I can't move.  I did manage to mix a margarita for myself, and thankfully my mouth is operable even as the rest of my body is shutting down.

Have I mentioned that I haven't planned for my classes tomorrow?
SMACK.

High school and gym class and swimsuits, oh my~

Want to deal a cruel fate to a self-conscious high school girl?  Schedule her for gym class first period... and require her to take a swimming unit.  

Want to double down?  Make her stand poolside in her bathing suit in a line with other girls, and put windows EVERYWHERE around the pool.  Make it inviting for students in the courtyard outside and in the gymnasium above to peer (and leer) inside.  

Want to break her bank?  Make the attendance line alphabetical so that Derby stands next to Douglas.

Make her stand next to Kelly Derby.

WOW!

Kelly Derby was God’s perfect form.  I’m pretty sure that Kelly Derby in a bathing suit was on the list of Top 100 Things You Should See Before You Die.  I mean, at the time, Kelly Derby in a bathing suit made me WANT to die, but I still appreciated (and hated) the reality. 

She was stunning. 

Me? I looked like a tongue depressor next to Kelly Derby.  In all honesty, I looked like a tongue depressor anywhere, but especially next to Kelly Derby, and there was no place to hide.  Gawkers looked through the windows from the basketball courts above and the courtyard outside.  

God, I hated Kelly Derby in those moments, because I wanted to be her so much.

The power that girl had!

What did I have?

I actually had a diversion. I should have realized what I realize now: no pair of those eyes were on me.  I should have taken comfort in the fact that Kelly Derby was the star of that show. I should have been grateful for the space of not being watched so that I could just be... me.  I didn't have to think about impressing anyone or being anything.  I had some time to be clumsy and awkward and silly and embarrassing, because honestly, no one was expecting me to be sexy and well-poised and perfect.

How I wish I had thought of it that way, but I didn’t.  I was too busy being devastated how I was being seen in relation to this stunning girl.

My senior year in high school, my English teacher stopped me one day on the way out of class.  We had been reading Sister Carrie, and the book spends time talking about Carrie's "simple beauty," which, let's face it, is another way of saying, she was a tongue depressor. Anyway, he said to me, "I'm so glad you never thought you were beautiful."  And I thought at the time, What kind of comment is that?!  


Simple had its advantage.

Prophet

I first noticed him a couple of summers ago. I was riding my bicycle downtown, and he was sitting on a wooden bench on the sidewalk in front of St. Nicholas Park.  This giant, onyx-black man dressed in layers of dark not-quite-raggedy rags and sat statue still, seeming to take the world in with the fewest movements possible.  There was a peacefulness to him.  He seemed... content.  It struck me as odd, because by all appearances, he looked homeless. (The clothes hinted at it, but the overflowing shopping cart next to him confirmed it.)  The homeless in New York City generally don't look content. Desperate, haunted, down on their luck, even strung out, yes, but not content.  


And as I continued on my way, I felt a slight lift; a little buoyancy. Odd.


After that first spotting, I started to look for him whenever I went by the park.  He was often right where I expected to see him, calm and still. 


For weeks I just took him in silently, but finally, I broke the barrier.  One day, I cycled by and yelled, "Hello!"  I raised my hand from the handlebar and gave a wave.  He lifted his head up in recognition and beamed the most beautiful, open smile. It seemed almost as though he had spotted me too over the past couple of weeks.  Maybe the watcher had been the watched!  Whatever the case, interaction had been established.


I looked forward to seeing him.  Our exchanges were so mutually enjoyable, like that of two old friends.   I would spot him and yell my "Hello!"  and we would both wave, and always, I left feeling lighter - happier.


One morning I was on my way to cycle with a friend before church, and I spotted him.  I waved and yelled hello, but this time, I turned around and cycled back.  I parked my bike at the curb and walked over to him.  He opened his arms wide, and without hesitation, I accepted his embrace.  And I know this seems crazy because even as I write it, I cringe a bit.  I mean, you have to be careful in the world today.  Don't let your guard down, and certainly not for a homeless stranger whom you know NOTHING about. He is a big, big man.  Who's to say he couldn't have just snapped my neck like a twig?  In almost every way, it was the most ridiculous thing to do.  Why would anyone be stupid enough to risk it?


So now you know, I'm not always the sharpest tack.
Close friends will say I'm hopelessly optimistic and incredibly naive.  That's fair.  
But the life I am blessed with is only possible through these qualities.


Let's get back to the story.  My friend Lindsey is a REAL writer, and in real writing when you digress from the action of a story, it's called a stop pause or a stop gap. (Right, Linds?)  It's not good to get too far off-course.  Umberto Eco can do that stuff, but not a little blog writer like me.


So, yes, I hugged this homeless stranger. The gentle giant enveloped me.  He was warm and smelled of something like cinnamon. Everything about that moment was comforting and safe.  Who knew? I laughed and he released me.  


"What is your name?"  I asked him. "It's only right that we should have a proper introduction."
He replied in a think accent.  Jamaican, maybe?  I couldn't understand so I asked him again.
"My name is Prophet,"  he smiled.
Now it was my turn to beam. 
Prophet. 
"Nice to meet you, Prophet.  I'm Stephanie."  We shook hands.  
"We must talk.  Can you stay and talk?" Prophet asked.
"Oh, no, not today.  I'm on my way to meet a friend, but yes, let's talk another time."
"I will tell you my story," he said.
"I'd like that, Prophet," I replied.  I let go of his hand and headed back to my bicycle.
"Be careful," he said.


(Oh, it's too late for that now, isn't it?)


I've seen Prophet several times since then.  Sometimes I've just waved on the way by, and sometimes we've shared a quick hug. Always he asks when we will talk and always, I've been on my way to somewhere else. 


I think about that sometimes.  I'm delaying listening to Prophet.  Hmmm.  


I haven't seen Prophet since the colder months, but I've started to keep an eye out for him again.  I wait with anticipation.  Part of me worries that he's been okay, and part of me thinks he can manage just fine without my concern. 


I think about Prophet on this Easter weekend.  Funny where we find our prophets. This one has come in the lowliest form, he travels alone or with others like him, but he is open and inviting and generous of spirit.  He seems to live right in the present, always willing to stop and just be grateful for what and who is right in front of him. And he wants me to hear his story.


May you find your very own prophet.

Clarity at 6:31 Still Comes Too Late

(I wrote this during summer 2010 with the NYC Writing Project, a branch of National Writing Project. That amazing group of writers/educators still inspire me to try and write every day.
I experienced this GodSmack that summer.)

“Clarity at 6:31 Still Comes Too Late”

I had turned my alarm off last night, because, sweet Saturday, I was planning on sleeping until I slipped from slumber.

Didn't happen.

6:28am: the apartment buzzer squawks.

?

Could it be FedEx already?  Who has a package?  Probably for Sharon downstairs.  Ugh, I hate when they mix up our buzzers.  Let me just - let me untangle myself from the sheets and see if I can see anything from the front window.  Holy cow, the living room is stifling.  Oooh, shut the bedroom door; don't let the A/C out.  

Wobble, wobble, swerve, oof. My foot stubs into the floorboard like a sloppy kiss.  The morning stumbles have me careening like a cliched drunken sailor. I lunge toward the couch, arms outstretched to catch myself in case depth perception tricks me.

Hmm.  Can't see a truck out front and can't see directly down to who's...

SQUAWK!
Again?

I go to the buzzer box.  I do not stub my foot - an indicator that I am cresting consciousness.

"Who is it?" (Can the person downstairs hear the edginess I have purposely peppered onto these three words? I have been awakened against my will!)

A woman's voice. "Sorry to come by so early but I have some murmurmrrmmmrmr bbbmmmrm."

"You have what?"

"Oh my, I'm just getting static on this end," she says.

Huh, you're going to get a lot more than that in a second, I think. I poke the buzzer with bullying intention.

"YOU. HAVE. WHAT?"  
That'll show her.

"Mrbbbrrm mrmrbbrr  I'll just leave it blpppblp brrrp.."
She is speaking a mishmosh of real words and humming consonants and I don't understand. That is a ridiculous thing to do.
To teach her a lesson, I'm now going to ignore her.

I release myself from the buzzer box and skip a little. Oooh!  Bedroom feels good.  Oooh, bed feels niiiiice. Snuggle, snuggle, snuggle.

SQUAWK!!!

(She's joking, right?)
I bang my fists on the mattress.
I am not getting out of this bed.  
I am not.
I am not.
I am not!
My heart's knocking.  
How dare she?  This is my Saturday and it's... it's now 6:30!  It's 6:30 and I should not feel my heart knocking!  I should be fast asleep!
I am not getting out of this bed.
BUT
Someone needs to tell her a thing or two.
You don't just go around ringing buzzers and talking in consonants whenever you feel like it.  
This is a society- there are RULES.

Look what she has made me do!  I am out of bed and scrambling for the scrunched up skort on the floor. I am back to the blast of the hot air, fly-falling down the three flights of stairs, flinging open the front door and -

She is petite and perfectly manicured.  This beautiful deer has obviously been up for HOURS and looks fresher than I will be able to muster by the afternoon today... maybe ever. She blinks her saucer eyes in such surprise.

"Oh,” she gasps, and her mouth is a perfect circle. “Oh my.”
(Only as I am in front of her is she now using all her vowels)
“I’m really sorry to disturb you so early,” she rapid-fire hyperventilates, “but I have big bags of clothing to drop off and - "

And I think I understand.

"You want the Reverend's house next door."

The saucer eyes widen to full dinner plates.
"Oh, I am so sorry.  I am so sorry!"
"It's all right," I say, but I make sure she knows it's not.
I turn from this woman with such annoyance and disgust
because she woke me up with a squawk, ripped me from cool dreams, and spoke in a language I couldn't understand.
I close the door with every bit of disdain I can muster.
I have been inconvenienced and it is a shameful, egregious act that has been committed upon me.

I fling myself back into bed and force myself to relax and return to bliss.  
I WILL RELAX.
I WILL LET GO.

Stupid lady.
Stupid generous lady.  
Stupid generous lady, donating clothing to people in need.
That's just downright inconsiderate of her, being so loving at 6:28am.
That's just...

oh.
...
...

OH.
Now I am the one with the wide-open eyes.
...

I get out of bed.

I am finally,

fully,

AWAKE.




(Smack.)