A very bad weekend

Saturday - 8 am

I open my eyes with the feeling that something is missing. I don't know exactly what, but it's a feeling that doesn't allow me to go back to sleep, even if I manage to doze off for a few more minutes before giving up and getting out of the bed. I shudder until I reach my robe and trudge half sleepily to the kitchen.

The feeling is still there. Like when you think about something before falling asleep and have a vague memory of it in the morning, even if you don't remember exactly what it is. I decide to stop thinking about it and move the window sashes slightly away. I expect to see a beautiful sun, but instead there are pale rays here and there, constipated by greyish clouds that threaten to turn black.

Simply perfect. My only day off in the week and it must rain too!

I sigh loudly and distractedly open the refrigerator door, leaning out my hand to grab the milk carton.

Where the hell did I put it? Why am I so careless when I put things away? Isn't it that maybe it's finished and I have to get a new cardboard? It's not that...

Wait!

Now I remember!

The supermarket. The sauces, the sugar, the milk. The coffee!

Shit! Shit! Shit!

How do I start the day?

I grunt and grab a half-empty carton of pineapple juice. I smell it and check the expiration date, before taking a sip and pouring the rest into a glass.

Alright. It's not a tragedy, I tell myself. Think that it is Saturday, that you will not write obituaries, that you will not see the faces of Lu, Jessica, Angela and Romina. This alone should brighten my day, right?

I grab an open packet of biscuits and dive into it, munching them while watching the end of a TV news, excerpts from a morning broadcast and a couple of cartoons.

I ignore the little voice, which is telling me not to eat all those sweets if I don't want to put on a few more pounds, and I finish the package, gulping down the glass of pineapple juice.

Okay, let's pretend the morning starts now.

First thing to do: shower.

I turn off the TV and drag myself under the hot jet, mentally reviewing everything I have to do during the day.

Groceries. Coffee and milk.

Cookies that I just finished.

Magnetic board. Agenda that I no longer bought yesterday.

Plant. Transfer. Thing to do absolutely, before the hibiscus starts a protest to assert the rights of houseplants.

Suitcases. Okay, suitcase. All right, duffle bag. Okay, small bag - a change is always good to take, you never know.

Laundry. Of course. The chair next to the bed is about to collapse.

I remain brooding for a few more minutes, with the feeling that something is still missing, but then the water begins to cool and, since I have no intention of repeating the arctic experience of yesterday, I quickly slip away and huddle in my peach-coloured sponge bathrobe. I walk near the bed and grab the pile of clothes that are lying down, tossing them into the washing machine drum. I hope I don't mess with the story of white and colour too much. Two washings ago I found myself with a cotton tank top in the middle of the coloured laundry and a red t-shirt in the middle of the white one. It is not that it happened who knows (maybe my underwear has turned slightly pink), but I would like to avoid buying back my wardrobe for a stupid laundry mistake.

I check that everything is in order and stare at the washing machine panel, trying to remember exactly what I need to press. It's not that I don't know how to use the washing machine, mind you. In the end I learned it too. It's just that I would like to avoid hanging and risking soaking the laundry in dirty water, so I thought it would be better to dry it in the washing machine. The problem is, I don't remember how.