I’ve apparently reached the point in my life where sitting in my car and talking to my phone has become a perfectly normal part of the morning. I get into the driver’s seat, settle myself in, look at the camera and begin delivering a completely unsolicited State of the Union address to the internet.
Except my State of the Union doesn’t cover the economy, foreign affairs or anything else remotely important. It’s more along the lines of: good morning, I’m tired, there’s a dog breathing directly into the back of my head, I haven’t had enough coffee, and for reasons I cannot explain, we need to discuss my boobs.
This is apparently who I am now.
I’ve also been trying to start my mornings by thinking about something I’m thankful for. You know, gratitude. Positivity. Appreciating the little things. All those emotionally mature things people recommend doing before you’ve had enough caffeine to remember your own postal code.
And I really am thankful for a lot. I’m thankful for my dogs. I’m thankful for my job, beautiful mornings, the people in my life and all the ordinary little things that are incredibly easy to take for granted.
But some mornings, if we’re being completely transparent here, I’m mostly thankful for coffee.
Sometimes I’m not even thankful for actual coffee. I’m thankful for the possibility of coffee.
Theoretical coffee.
You know, decaf.
Coffee that has not yet entered my body but whose existence gives me the strength to continue.
There is a very specific point in the morning when coffee stops being a beverage and becomes a rescue operation. Before coffee, I’m technically awake, but nobody should be making any major decisions based on that information. My eyes are open. My body is moving. Words are coming out of my mouth. That does not mean all systems are operational.
Coffee doesn’t even fix anything anymore. Coffee and I have reached a mature stage in our relationship where neither of us makes unrealistic promises.
Coffee says, “I can’t solve your problems.”
I say, “I know.”
Coffee says, “I can make you slightly more willing to deal with them.”
And I say, “Get in.”
Meanwhile, there is usually at least one dog sitting behind me while I’m recording these morning updates, staring at me with the expression of an employee who has already contacted Human Resources.
Dogs are incredibly judgmental for animals that will happily eat something they found underneath a dumpster.
I’ll be talking away, trying to remember what day it is, and somewhere behind my shoulder is a face silently saying, “Are you finished? Because there is a telephone pole three streets over that smells different than it did yesterday, and frankly I think that deserves our immediate attention.”
(Disclaimer: I actually record content after walks to occupy myself while the doggos cool down)
I may technically be the dog walker, but I’ve realized that’s just the title they gave me to make me feel important.
I’m actually the chauffeur.
They’re the clients.
Extremely demanding clients.
They don’t pay for gas, refuse to wear seatbelts properly, shed all over the upholstery and occasionally scream out the window at pedestrians.
And yet somehow I’m the employee.
One morning, there was a dog sitting directly behind me looking over my shoulder while I talked. Not doing anything. Just watching.
Supervising.
Probably taking notes.
“9:14 a.m. Human continues talking instead of driving.”
“9:16 a.m. Human mentions coffee for fourth time.”
“9:17 a.m. I’m so ready to go home, NOW.”
“Performance review pending.”
Then there’s Tuesday.
Tuesday has always bothered me because it has absolutely no personality.
Monday knows what it is. Monday kicks open the door, throws your responsibilities onto the floor and says, “Miss me?”
Wednesday has hump day.
Thursday has that wonderful almost-Friday energy.
Friday walks in wearing sunglasses with absolutely no intention of accomplishing anything after 2pm.
Saturday is freedom.
Sunday is denial.
Tuesday just shows up.
“Hi. I’m Tuesday.”
Okay. And?
What exactly are you bringing to the table?
Nothing.
Tuesday is the beige cardigan of weekdays.
Still, I was feeling pretty accomplished because I’d figured out a little trick that made doing my hair easier. When you’re younger, you imagine adulthood will be filled with major achievements. Careers. Travel. Big milestones. Exciting adventures.
Nobody tells you that eventually you’ll stand in front of a mirror absolutely thrilled because you figured out how to braid your hair without dislocating a shoulder.
That’s where happiness lives now.
If something saves me seven minutes and prevents a minor repetitive-strain injury, I want balloons.
I want a parade.
Call the mayor.
Unfortunately, while discussing the ordinary annoyances of getting ready, we arrived at the subject of sports bras.
Sports bras are proof that clothing designers occasionally look at the human body and say, “I have never seen one of these before, but I’m willing to guess.”
Putting on a sports bra is not getting dressed.
It is crowd control.
You start with two boobs.
This is important.
Two.
You know there are two because you have had them for some time.
Then you put on a sports bra, look down and suddenly your body has begun creating additional inventory.
There’s boob over here.
Boob over there.
Somehow there’s boob near your armpit.
Excuse me?
Who authorized this?
I started this procedure with two breasts and now it looks like I’m smuggling dinner rolls.
So then you have to start rearranging everything.
You reach inside.
Lift.
Separate.
Redistribute.
Reassess.
You think you’re finished, and then you turn sideways and discover the third titty.
Nobody ordered a third titty. I’m annoyed by the two I already had.
Sports bra companies like to advertise “support.”
No.
We are well beyond support.
What I require is containment.
I don’t need moisture-wicking technology. I need perimeter fencing.
There should be instructions on the label:
STEP ONE: Locate all breasts.
STEP TWO: Confirm quantity.
STEP THREE: Place breasts inside designated breast containment area.
STEP FOUR: Conduct perimeter check.
STEP FIVE: If additional breast is discovered, return to Step One.
And this is happening before I’ve even properly started my day.
Then I get into the car, where several dogs are waiting for me as though none of us has just witnessed what happened in the house.
They have their own problems anyway.
A squirrel may exist somewhere.
Another dog may have walked down this street within the past six hours.
Someone may be carrying a sandwich three blocks away.
There is important work to be done.
Dog walking itself is a beautiful, peaceful occupation if you ignore almost everything that actually happens while doing it.
People picture someone strolling along a lovely trail while happy dogs trot politely beside them.
Sure.
Sometimes.
Other times you’re holding three leashes while one dog suddenly detects a squirrel in another postal code, another has stopped dead because a leaf moved suspiciously, and the third has discovered something on the ground that absolutely must be swallowed before you can identify it.
You go from peaceful nature walk to hostage negotiation in approximately 1.7 seconds.
“DROP IT.”
Dog chews faster.
“DROP. IT.”
Dog makes eye contact.
Now it’s personal.
Nothing makes you question your authority quite like standing on a sidewalk negotiating with an animal who has something disgusting in its mouth and knows you want it.
Dogs understand leverage.
Then there’s the weather.
Every morning, you dress according to what the forecast claims is going to happen, and every morning the atmosphere says, “That’s adorable.”
You leave the house dressed for cool weather and suddenly it’s summer.
Dress lightly? Windstorm.
Bring an umbrella? Not a cloud in sight.
Forget the umbrella? Apparently we’re reenacting that famous biblical flood.
There is no winning.
By the middle of the week, I’m basically running a mobile office out of my vehicle. There are dog supplies. There are poop bags. There are probably seventeen things I meant to take into the house yesterday. There’s a coffee cup. There may be another coffee cup beneath that coffee cup.
I don’t clean out my car anymore.
I conduct archaeological excavations.
“Oh look! A receipt from June.”
“A dog treat.”
“Another dog treat.”
“A glove.”
“Why is there only one glove?”
“A water bottle.”
“Three poop bags.”
“Another coffee cup.”
“Ah yes, the remains of a civilization that believed it would clean the car on Sunday.”
Every day I climb back into this travelling command centre and somehow convince myself that today will be organized.
That optimism is honestly inspiring.
By Thursday, the week starts to feel personal.
I’m no longer simply experiencing the passage of time. I’m in a disagreement with it.
I wake up thinking, “Surely it’s Friday.”
Thursday says no.
I check again.
Still Thursday.
That’s when you realize Thursday is just Friday making you prove you deserve it.
And by Friday morning, I’m already looking forward to going to bed.
Not Friday night.
Friday morning.
I haven’t even completed the current day and I’m already emotionally committed to unconsciousness later.
That is a very specific level of adult exhaustion.
Someone asks, “Any exciting plans tonight?”
Absolutely.
I’m going to remove my pants, lie horizontally and become unavailable.
There may be snacks.
Do not contact me.
Friday also seems to be when my ability to form complete thoughts starts shutting down. I’ll begin telling a story with complete confidence, get halfway through it and suddenly realize I have absolutely no idea where I was going.
There’s just a pause.
My brain has left the meeting.
I can almost hear hold music.
Eventually it comes back with no useful information whatsoever.
And somehow, throughout all of this ridiculousness, I keep coming back to the gratitude thing.
Because maybe gratitude isn’t sitting peacefully beside a window at sunrise with a beautiful journal while birds chirp and you lovingly write down ten profound things about the miracle of existence.
Maybe sometimes gratitude is much less elegant.
Maybe it’s sitting in your car with dog hair on your clothes and a coffee in your hand, realizing that despite the fact that you’re tired, slightly disorganized and still not entirely convinced all of your boobs are where you left them, you’re actually pretty happy.
My life is chaotic.
It’s loud.
It frequently smells like wet dog, actually a lot of them at once.
My vehicle may qualify as an ecosystem.
My mornings require caffeine and negotiations.
I occasionally lose entire thoughts while I’m still speaking them.
My dogs have absolutely no respect for my authority.
I routinely begin the day with a plan that life immediately uses as a suggestion.
But I laugh.
A lot.
I get to spend time with animals who are ridiculous and wonderful. I get outside. I see beautiful mornings. I have people I love. I have stories to tell. There’s usually coffee somewhere in my immediate future.
And maybe having your life together is overrated anyway.
Maybe nobody really has it together.
Maybe some people are simply better at hiding the dog hair.
So tomorrow morning I’ll probably climb back into the car, turn on the camera and once again attempt to explain whatever is happening in my life while a dog supervises from the back seat.
I’ll try to remember something I’m grateful for.
I’ll drink my coffee.
I’ll probably lose my train of thought.
And eventually I’ll head out to walk dogs who will spend the next several hours trying to dislocate my shoulder because a squirrel had the audacity to exist.
But before I leave the house, I will conduct one final safety check.
Keys.
Phone.
Coffee.
Dogs.
Two boobs.
Because after the sports bra incident, we are counting every morning.
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