Oh my God that thing is so annoying. That irritating song reminds me that I have to leave my cozy bed, my warm husband, and get my dog's sharp (although somewhat comforting) claws out of my face.
I'm not ready. Five more minutes. Just five more minutes…
Damnit! I'm awake now.
Roll outta bed. My eyes aren't open, but I manage to pee, brush my teeth, and pop an energy pill. If Bryan moved the pills, I probably just swallowed a Tylenol PM. I have a mini panic attack.
Throw on workout clothes. I'm sure there's Chevy hair all over me, but I really don't care. Wash my face. Sort of. Who do I have to impress there? A bunch of old men and a couple of steroid-poppers. I don't even look at myself in the mirror when I leave. I probably have crusty toothpaste on my face. Life goes on after crusty toothpaste.
I'm waking up now. Grab a piece of a fruit, a bottled water, and my gym bag. Keys. Go.
Car clock says 4:52. I beat my longtime record of 4:54. Way to go Sarah. I mentally pat myself on the back. Cutting my get-ready time is a little game I play with myself. I'm winning.
Pull out of the garage, careful not to snag the ivy that is obviously on the same juice as the weightlifters at the gym. Note to self: have Bryan trim it this weekend, or it might KILL US. That would totally suck. Then when we died, my parents would have to come clean out our house, and they would find the rubber ducky that vibrates. How embarrassing. Bryan's gotta trim that thing.
Flip on the headlights, half-expecting some creepy stranger/Jason-like/hairy beast to block my car, as the gates to our “gated community†aren't yet up. False advertising. And yes, I watch too many USA movies on Sunday.
Turn on car stereo, talk radio. One of the most comforting, familiar sounds to me. My dad listened to it nonstop, and the apple doesn't fall far. Oh shit, apple. Gotta eat it so it will have time to get settled before I workout.
Downtown is a ghost town, except for a few early birds at the courthouse. Enron trial. Media. How many shots of Ken Lay entering the courthouse does one really need?
Past JP Morgan Chase. Past Continental. Past Dynegy. Past BP. 4th largest city in the country, amazing how empty it is.
Red light. Homeless man staggers in front of my car. I wonder if anyone would notice if I hit him? Did I really just think that?
Car pulls up next to me. I dare to look over. Eyes are staring back at me. What if he's a stalker, and I'm his target? He knows my morning routine. Oh no. Let his car pull in front of mine when the light turns green. Memorize his license plate number in case I need it ‘cause he turned out to be my stalker and rapes me and leaves me for dead but yet I somehow make it home alive and press charges and when they go to his house they find a shrine to me, complete with Taco Bell wrappers and strands of bleached blond hair.
Pull into the parking garage, roll down the window to get my ticket. Get my first taste of what the weather is. Crap, I should have worn a jacket. Now my nips are gonna be hard and the old farts that ride the stationary bikes will stare at me all morning.
Park, grab bag and lock car. Walk down the ramp by myself, in a desolate garage. Did I just see something move? Clasp my longest key in between my fingers, just like I learned on Oprah. Probably doesn't work, but makes me feel better. But I wouldn't need it anyways – the effects of the energy pill are starting to work, and I feel energized. The cool air takes it up a notch.
Ah, it's good to be alive! Cheesy, yes, but damn true.
I step onto the downtown sidewalk, and see the familiar security guard on the corner. He watches me as I step over a homeless guy, making sure the guy doesn't try and take me down and steal my ipod. I pass cop-for-hire and say good morning. I am thinking that I love my life, I love my morning routine, and I can't wait to sweat.