So much of our time is preparation, so much is routine, and so much retrospect, that the pith of each man’s genius contracts itself to a very few hours.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
The Morning Routine
June 26, 2003
Wake up. Look in mirror. Scream. God, I look like a coked-up banshee.
Hop into shower. Shave legs with wild abandon. Scream at invading husband to GETOUTGETOUTGETOUT because I don’t want him to see what a hairy monkey I am when I haven’t shaved for a week.
Comb hair. Lose half of hair to comb teeth. Mutter about Progaine.
Hop out of shower. Wash face, huddling low over the sink because the overhead trapdoor is wet and moldy and might come crashing down at any minute.
Brush teeth. Floss. Check for cavities. Is that a cavity? Ohgodohgodoh — no, it’s just a shadow. Consider seeing therapist about oral paranoia.
Apply exfoliating facial mask. Remind self to remove in ten minutes.
Get dressed while maintenance man sits on loudly idling tractor right outside bedroom window. Mutter about thicker curtains.
Spritz perfume over self and room like there’s no tomorrow. Cough.
Pull hair out of sticky exfoliating facial mask. It was time to exfoliate my hair, anyway.
Try to put in earrings. Discover ear holes have closed in the night. Curse. Repunch ears (ow, ow) and admire the pretty silver earrings against the swollen, bloody earlobes. Nice.
Pluck eyebrows. Ouch, ouch, ouch. Nearly rip off upper lip trying to pluck moustache. Don’t even want to think about nose hairs.
Jab mascara wand into cornea. Curse.
Apply eyeshadow. Not right. Apply more eyeshadow. Still not right. Give up and punch self in eye. There, that’s what I was going for.
Paint nails. Flap fingers around in boredom, then go on computer. Smudge nails. Curse, curse.
Face feels tight. Look in mirror and shriek at what appears to be glossy, peeling skin. Belatedly remember exfoliating facial mask. Peel off. Ow.
Admire finished self — uneven brows, smudged nails, bloody earlobes and all. Yes, I’m a natural beauty.
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