I’ve never been a morning person. Ever. In my entire life. I’ve had a fairly severe caffeine addiction since I was 18. Most times, it takes me a good four or five attempts to even lift myself out of the cozy cocoon of blankets, wool socks, and dreams that I delightfully weave for myself each night. So I try to avoid activities that are particularly mentally taxing before I’m properly caffeinated and functioning. However, since having a big girl job and coming to terms with the fact that for the majority of my adult life I will need to rise before seven a.m. five days a week, I’ve taken some steps to make them more bearable. I work out before doing anything else to help get my blood pumping. I give myself time to make a proper breakfast with enough protein to get me through lunch without my stomach throwing a bitch-fit. I choose the clothes that I will wear the night before and make sure they are ironed and clean so I can dress quickly.
It’s also worth noting that I do take steps to look quite nice for work. When I can wear what I want I’m all about comfort. But, if I need to be professional, I’m going to look professional as all fuck, god damn it. High heels. Pressed slacks. Pencil skirts. Fancy silk blouses that are never washed as often as they should be because, let’s face it, dry-clean only is code for “Eh I can wear this another day and not smell TOO much like a dumpster.”
Anyways. Point. Right. I was making one.
This particular morning I woke up late and groggy. No reason. I just did.
...okay so I gorged myself on half a pint of chocolate ice cream and a bag of Doritos the night before. Whatever. It’s not like you’re perfect or anything. I bet your Thanksgiving turkey was dry and unsatisfying (unrelated: that’s also what he said. HEYO! *high fives self*).
Back to the morning. It was late enough that I skipped my workout and healthy breakfast and just threw on the nice outfit I had laid out the night before. As I was leaving, I remembered that Dad had asked me to let the chickens out of the hen house. So I started the car to let it warm up, walked over to the coop, and pulled on the string that lifts the gate to the hen house. Since the PNW has been colder than Santa’s butthole lately, the latch was frosted shut.
So I opened the coop, stooped down (in my professional business clothes, mind you), and opened it by hand. Even so, I still had to latch it open from the outside. So I stumbled back out of the coop and secured the string. Chickens = dealt with. Great success. I could go to work and drink more coffee.
Until something white caught my eye. I realized that I forgot to close the coop itself and Amelia had made a break for it. The other three were still cautiously weighing the pros and cons of running away.
I ran to the door and threw it shut, keeping the other three chickens inside. At this point I just had to catch Amelia. The most skittish piece of shit asshole chicken on the face of the planet. In the dark. In 30 degrees. In boots and a dress.
The next five minutes consisted of me chasing the everloving fuck out of Amelia, who had gone from “FREEDOM!!!” to “OH FUCK WHERE THE FUCK AM I LET ME BACK IN!!” She kept running the fuck into the chicken wire around the coop attempting to get back in. Apparently she thinks she’s made of liquid or is Kitty Pryde in X-Men or some shit. That annoying song yakety sax started playing in my head.. I kept muttering over and over “You stupid piece of shit just STOP running away and I WILL LET YOU BACK IN fucking stupid bitch of a chicken asshat mother fucking up my entire fucking morning…”
Finally I tackled her against the coop and she got her panties all in a bunch over it. At this point I started yelling at her “YOU AND I WANT THE SAME THING GOD DAMN IT. I’M LETTING YOU BACK IN CALM YOUR SHIT.” I managed to throw her in the coop, slam and lock the door, get in my car (that had been running the entire time still), and head to work.
The moral of the story is: if you skip your morning work out, don’t you fret. The universe will give you another opportunity to get that blood pumping...but it’ll use a bitch of a chicken to do it. My only regret is that no one was around to witness and/or film the pissed off woman in business attire swearing profusely as she runs around and around in the dark chasing a chicken.