In the morning the alarm goes off, my eyes open and my dream vanishes into a feeling. I take a breath, groan, yawn and stretch a little. The cat stretches too, displeased that I’ve disturbed his slumber. Those morning moments are identical, and I live this over and over. It’s a necessary routine to get my day started and sometimes I check out.
Then comes stretching and range of motion. If I want to do it right, I need help.
I am taken to the throne and then into the shower — lavish scents in soaps and shampoos and the privilege of hot water — it’s royal treatment. I’m naked and cold and my mind checks back in because the moment the water touches my skin it hurts. Nerve pain. I breathe through it until the burning stops hurting and trans¬forms into relief from the warm liquid soothing it. I endure this part because, well, hygiene, and in the end my hair will be silky and I’ll smell good.
Back into the bed — I haven’t officially broken free.
Just rolling in the bed is a struggle.
Putting on pants … oof … this takes time.
The bra and shirt … yeah, I’ve got this!
Socks. Shoes. Somebody help me.
Transfer into the chair. Shift this way. Pull the pants that way.
There! I rolled out of bed … two hours after my alarm went off. I didn’t hit snooze three times, my hair isn’t tangled or oily, and pajamas are not part of my outfit. Thankfully, my monotonous mornings result in me rolling out of bed put together, with enough time to have breakfast.