Six Ways to One Day

Chapter 22

When you wake up this morning, you notice that your head is lying atop the book that you started reading last night. You have no clue when you fell asleep, but you must have drifted off at some point. The book you were reading from the night before, is neatly closed, and your bookmark nowhere in sight. When you try to lift up your head from the book that you were using as a pillow, you have to peel your cheek off the shiny cover of the paperback. Picking up the book in your hand as you sit up, you realize that the front cover of the book had absorbed some of your drool and it's now sporting a perfectly circular wet spot. You think, "Good Lord... Could I possibly be more pathetic?"

You look over to your nightstand and see that you had the wherewithal to charge your phone before you fell into your wine induced coma last night. You also see that the glass of wine that you brought to bed with you is empty. "I guess I polished the third glass off before I when unconscious."

Scooching to the edge of the bed, you feel a twinge of headache behind your eyes, not to mention the world's worst case of dry mouth. You think, "At what point, is drinking alone a sign of a problem?"

As soon as you get up from your bed, the twinge of headache that you were feeling behind your eyes a moment ago, comes crashing in full force. You grasp your head in both hands and groan in pain. When you look at the clock, you see that you're already fifteen minutes behind schedule and mutter a colorful expletive to let the universe know of your dissatisfaction.

Not wanting to be late for work, you skip a couple of steps to your morning routine and get out of the house on time. Your original plan was to pack an overnight bag and bring it with you so that you don't have to come back to your place before heading to Judy's, but thanks to your wine fueled debacle from last night, you had to adjust your plan for the day. Getting into your car, you grumble to yourself, "Just perfect. Now I have to get back here after work."

Opting against your normal morning commute playlist, you drive to work in silence. You feel awful. Even after swallowing down 800 mg of ibuprofen and Pepto-Bismol for slight nausea, you are the real-life incarnation of the phrase, "Death warmed over." You know that if you can get through today without vomiting or breaking into tears, you are going to consider it a win.

By the time you arrive at work, you're a few minutes ahead of schedule. Pulling your car into your usual spot, you take a hard swallow and let out a big sigh. You recall Josh's words from last night about how you were going to hate yourself in the morning, and think, "He was right. I do hate myself right now."

With your big black sunglasses still on, you get your things from the backseat of your car and head inside. As you walk up to the second floor, you let out a wet burp that burns your throat. You mutter to yourself, "Oh... come on. I haven't eaten anything other than that stupid pickle in the past twenty-four hours. What is with the acid stomach? I swear, if I vomit, I'm going home."

Feeling the searing burn in the back of your throat from the regurgitated stomach acid, you mutter a curse under your breath. The handful of ibuprofens you took before you left home doesn't seem to be working at all, but luckily, the mild nausea that you were experiencing has subsided. You have no idea how you're going to get through the day. All you want to do is crawl into a dark hole and wait for the grim reaper to come find you. But, you don't have that kind of luxury.

When you're finally at your classroom door, you realize that you had forgotten to get your work keys out of your purse while you were by your car and your hands were free. So now, you have to stand here, in front of your classroom, rifling through your giant purse for them. No matter how hard you try, or how deep you dig, you can't seem to find your keys. Starting to feel the ember of ire reigniting, you let out a huff and drop your things on the floor, in an attempt to employ both of your hands in the search for your work keys. With both hands digging inside your big purse, you move things aside, trying to locate the goddamned things. Feeling your agitation mounting, you stop what you're doing and throw your head back in frustration. "Ugh... this is going to be a long ass day."