The Harrowing Tale of My Morning

You know those days when you really just want everything to go as planned? Those days when you need to be at certain places at certain times and life would just be so very much simpler if nothing went wrong? I went to bed last night knowing that I was going to awaken to one of those days because, today, I am driving up to NJ after work to attend my admission ceremony to the NJ Bar. My best laid plans: (1) spring up early out of bed; (2) review as I got ready if the small bag I packed (the night before!) had everything I needed; (3) get to work before 8am so I wouldn’t feel bad leaving before 4pm; (4) leave early so I could walk up to the Double Tree Hotel down the street and pick up my rental car; (5) haul ass around the city on 295 (and thus skip sitting on New York Ave during rush hour); (6) get home; and (7) make my way into the city (oh yeah, NYC people, I’d love to see you). It was going to be tricky, but I’d done harder things before.

I awoke at 6:45am – a little later than I’d planned. It takes me about 30 minutes to get ready in the morning and a little over 30 (if the metro is kind) to get to work in Crystal City but I knew that I still needed to pack away my toiletries and do a last minute assessment so I figured I’d be late. I turned on the shower to let the water heat up and I turned back to my apartment. Standing near the kitchen (if my sink, two-burner electric stove, and convection microwave can really be called a kitchen), I smelled the strong odor of red wine that’s been sitting around for a few days. I was going to totally fib here and say that the glass of wine sitting near my stove was from last night or from two nights ago, but the wine was actually from Friday night. Instead of pouring it out, I just set it near my stove. I’m certain that deep down I was thinking what a terrible waste it was to pour out a glass of wine. Still, this morning I decided that this particular glass had to go so I picked it up.

Now, I’m not sure if I was still a bit asleep or if I expected the glass to be a lot heavier or if maybe I have some weird spatial judgment problem, but the object in my hand somehow exploded in a fantastic spray of glass and red wine. I stared at my right hand, my fingers still bent in goblet-holding position, and wondered if the dark red liquid dripping from it was wine or blood or both. I felt no pain, but you never can tell. In a bit of a panic I ran to my bathroom sink and rinsed off my hand. A thorough examination revealed that, somehow, I hadn’t been cut. I turned to my stove and counter (not that I really have counter space) and saw what could’ve been a set piece for a Jack the Ripper film. It looked like someone had opened a vein over everything. Wine was splattered on the wall, on the fridge, on the container of Metamucil. Frowning at my own misfortune, I spent the next 20 minutes cleaning.

Clearly, I was going to be later than I’d hoped. After I was done wiping down the walls and cleaning out the innards of my stove, I hopped in the shower. I was lightning fast as I brushed my teeth and did my morning skin routine. Maybe, just maybe, I thought, I was going to recoup some time. I had a bit of a false start out the door – getting all the way down my front steps before turning around to snag my EZ Pass – but then I strode confidently towards the metro. Bob Sinclair’s "Love Generation" blaring in my crappy Sony headphones, I actually smiled as I thought about the wine glass incident. But nothing could stop me now. I smiled twice more: first when I was handed an Express at the top of the metro escalator and again when I read the headline “We Are All Going to Feel So Bad If This Book Is Terrific” over a blurb about Tori Spelling’s planned memoir. On the escalator, I had a bit of a debate with myself whether I should stop to add money to my SmartTrip. I knew I was low but I was also late. In the end, by the grace of some higher being, I opted to refill my card. That’s when I noticed my credit card wasn’t there. And neither was my license. If you’ve rented a car before, you probably know that they like seeing a driver’s license before handing you the keys. I felt part of me die as I turned around to walk back.

Last night, I went to JR’s with Chris and started a tab. I had only a couple of beers and I knew that I had remembered to sign it out. What I couldn’t explain was why my card and license (they take both to keep a tab open) weren’t in my wallet. All I could think was that I had slipped them into my pocket. Or left them on the bar. As I walked back, I refused to think about how my license being either at JR’s or gone would alter my plan for the day. You can imagine my relief when I stuck my hand into the pocket of my jeans and found the two cards. Of course, as I made my way down the steps for the third time this morning, I realized that I left my Express on my table. I decided to wastefully accept another one from the nice Express passer-outer rather than turn back.

When I got to Crystal City, it was actually later than when I usually get to work. I think I’m still going to leave early, but I’m going to feel bad about it. In the end, though, I made a command decision to actually be even later. Instead of taking the left after ABP into the elevator that leads up to my lobby (expect a post on the weirdness of the underground mall that is Crystal City soon), I opted to veer right towards McDonald’s. Nothing – and I mean NOTHING – cures crisis better than a bacon, egg, and cheese on a biscuit. (Just remember to use a napkin to squeeze the grease out of the hash brown before you eat it.)