The alarm clock on the cell phoned chimed off its usual lime light New-York slam dance Techno remix reminding me that it was in fact time to wake up despite the sun being an hour late. Damn day light savings time I thought to myself. A damp dew hung thick and pungent in the dingy apartment. I sloppily rolled out of bed and stumbled my way towards the bathroom. On my journey, I made the usual safety inspection stops to be sure that the dresser, bed post, night stand, reading lamp, pile of dirty clothes on the floor, half zipped back back hanging from door, and hall way bicycle pump were in their full and up right positions. Swing... and a miss... I reached for the light switch and contemplated the nature to my morning 'order of operations'. The damage was kept to a minimum this morning, a few sheets of TP was all that was required to restore the porcelain to its natural state of being. But something was different about this morning. The morning breakfast routine was carried at in the same regimented manner: Large mixing bowl, add raw oats, cinnamon, and platinum granular; mix plain unsweetened soy milk; let stand for 5 minutes, meander into the next room, turn on the computer, and check out the latest carnage on wall street, and by wall street, of course, I really mean check out season 5 episode 4 of the Simpsons. Why that particular episode on this particular morning? the answer is simple: Because yesterday was season 5 episode 3 and tomorrow will be season 5 episode 5. All these actions were performed with the same steadfast precision, the kind of precision that an 80 year old war veteran makes his bed every morning with: Clean, Crisp, exact. The mind however was else where this morning and wasn't finding homers simplistic approach to life's complex problems very funny. There was something else, some unfinished business to attend to. My eyes glanced from the computer screen, quickly scanned the room, and came to rest on a home made ceramic bowl that I received as a gift from a good family friend up north. With a deep sigh I realized that I could no longer delay the inevitable: THE TIME HAD COME. I closed the computer screen and made my way back into the bed room. Underwear, check; old faded denim blue jeans, check; white coffee stained Hanes undershirt, check; Old water polo sweat shirt, check; socks, check; Running shoes, check; Dew-Rag, check. Rudy project smoke lense sun glasses, check. Like a soldier preparing for battle, The layers where applied to my person: one article of clothing at a time, in a fashion that almost paralyzed time. I then made my way back into the living room, back to the very same bookshelf, that contained the very same ceramic bowl that had been engraving its image into my consciousness for the past several days. I meticulously lifted the bowl from its resting place, took the Dew-rag from atop my head and wiped the dust from the bowl. I then emptied the contents into a small pouch, that attached securely to my black, worn, cracked leather belt and made my way to the front door. The door opened with effortless ease, with the same welcoming swiftness as the sliding glass doors at the local grocery store. I took a deep breath of the morning air: Stiff, I thought to myself. The sun was threatening to wake and I drew a correlation in my mind between the way I like my morning air and how I used to like my whiskey. I smiled inwardly knew it was time.
My hand, back, and shoulders loaded to the brim with the necessary supplies I began the first of many arduous schleps.
Several hours later Staring at the monumental task near completion I thought: I wonder if this it what it feels like to ascend the mighty and daunting peak of everest or swim the English channel. Regardless, I knew in my mind that was thing was for certain: My mom would be proud.
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