5:30 A.M: Your neighbor’s feet hitting the pavement as they jog by your window with Dave Ramsey financial advice blaring out of their earphones. Nothing louder than the sound of responsibility, but it’s too early to be alive. You reach for your earphones and drone out the noise with the soothing tones of a Doug Benson podcast.
6:00 A.M: The roar of a garbage truck. You peek out your window and see a garbage man riding on the back of the truck. Seems like fun. You nod off wondering how one gets a gig like that.
7:00 A.M: You promised yourself you’d get up at this time, but you hear the pitter patter of children walking to school. People will get the wrong idea if you go for a jog when so many kids are out and about. “Suspected pedophile” will not look good on a resume. Best to sleep in a bit longer.
8:00 A.M: Realizing she woke up late for school, your neighbor’s teenage daughter belts out her daily panicked “Fuck!” You feel slightly better about yourself. You didn’t oversleep. Sure, you’re not needed anywhere… but your bladder. You didn’t oversleep on your bladder. You felt the tingle, you got up, and you tinkled in the goddamn toilet like an adult. That deserves at least a couple more minutes of sleep.
9:30 A.M: The garbage truck comes around again making you wonder how many adults know the garbage truck comes around more than once per day.
10:00 A.M: A phone call! Could it be that Poke place you applied at a month and a half ago? Nope, just those Mormon missionaries you gave your number to during that “Who am I” phase in college. You’re frustrated. You should sleep it off.
10:15 A.M: But you keep thinking of Poke and are way too hungry to sleep. Eating now means pushing back that morning jog, but that’s okay. It’s Monday. Nobody’s 100% on a Monday. Sure, that usually applies to people with jobs, but keeping your body up and running is a full time job in itself. You are your own stay at home mom. You are essential. Eat.
10:30 A.M: Scrambled eggs turns into discount Halloween candy, a bowl of Lucky Charms (only the marshmallows), and a handful of crispy bits from the stove. You eye the Pop Tart box, but that’s taking it overboard. Your belly’s full. Naps, you hear, help with digestion. The sooner you poop the sooner you get to jog, so off to bed you go.
12:00 P.M: DING! It’s that weekly email from ZipRecruiter begging you to download their app so you can “look for jobs on the go.” You feel insulted. You’re unemployed. You’re the least on the go you’ve ever been. You’d put a stop to these promotions, but it feels good to get formal looking emails. It may be a robot, but something out there finds you worthy of some professionalism. The blandness of the message starts lulling you back to sleep. The morning’s already gone, what’s another thirty minutes?
2:15 P.M: There’s that poop you’ve been waiting for, but right outside your window are those same kids walking back home. You can’t go out for a jog at least another hour. Is it because you don’t want to look creepy? No. It was never about that. Last time you ran while kids were out and about they teased you for sweating so much while moving so slowly. They called you a “walking raindrop” which left you sitting covered in teardrops. You stay in the safety of your bathroom, pull out your phone, and treat yourself to an episode of Game of Thrones.
3:10 P.M: You can’t feel your legs. You finished pooping 45 minutes ago and knew this would happen if you stayed on the toilet, but everyone was right. This show really doesn’t give a fuck about your feelings. You waddle off to bed. You lay there whimpering “Ned.” You can’t jog now. You’re an emotional wreck. You take a nap to recover from the blow.
4:00 P.M: You wake up to a rumbling tummy. That box of Pop Tarts is calling your name. You can’t run on an empty stomach. You might pass out.
4:10 P.M: The box of Pop Tarts is gone. You’ve spent the whole day sleeping, but you’re more exhausted than ever. You can’t go back to sleep though. It’s four o’fucking clock. You put on those running shoes and step out the door. The light is blinding. “Am I a vampire?” you wonder. You feel out of blood. You turn pale.
8:00 P.M: You wake up to the sound of a heart monitor. The nurse says you passed out on your front lawn. She mentioned low blood sugar, but that doesn’t make sense. You had a box of Pop Tarts. If anything the sugar high should’ve had you sprinting. You ask when you can leave. She says now. You ask if they’re hiring. She says no. Yet another emotional blow. You ask if you can spend the night. She says your mom’s insurance still covers it. Such an eventful day. You deserve a good night’s sleep.