Rain. Gray. Chilly. Depressing. The bed is warm and soft, full of sleeping cats and sleeping Fauxhawk.
Why am I getting up again?
Oh, right. Werk.
I am not my best in the morning. I marvel at people who enjoy waking up early to a leisurely morning routine of breakfast, the paper and a thorough wardrobe assessment. My morning routine usually consists of:
Hit snooze button six times.
Peel cat off head.
Check crackberry.
Stumble into kitchen.
No coffee. Fuck.
No food either.
WNYC in the shower. No soap. Fuck.
Where are my clothes? At dry cleaner. Fuck.
Wear underwear backwards (inadvertently). Understand, on a deeper level, that something is wrong, but do nothing.
Does this even fit? Fuck it. Wear it anyway.
Bid farewell to Fauxhawk, who emerges momentarily from his catatonia.
Leave without umbrella. Fuck it. Get wet.
Notice on subway that hair is sticking up in strange places.
This morning I deviated from my usual routine by blindly grabbing an umbrella from the closet before dashing out the door. When I got downstairs, I saw that it was the umbrella from the Museum of Modern Art that my mom got me for my birthday:
“This is the keep the rain off,” she said, hoping that it would shield me from more than precipitation. I liked that.
When I opened the umbrella, something amazing happened. Embraced by color, my spirits lifted. I felt a burst of energy. I was positively zippity-do-da.
The umbrella also seemed to inspire other Brooklynites strumbling through their morning routines in a pre-caffeinated state. Passersby smiled. “I like your umbrella!” they said. On the subway, the umbrella caused a sensation.
“That’s some umbrella!”
“Where did you get it?”
“Wow! That umbrella is…happy.”
As Maryam says, sometimes color is the best Prozac. Check her spot today (or any day) for Moroccan-style color therapy.
