Monday morning, seven hours into the am, the alarm strategically sounds, a sudden shudder and a somehow planned stretch I am awoke. Brain telling me that if the eyes close I’ll be a goner and probably fired from work, on the other hand it screams ‘be different’ obediently listening the angel of goodwill and morals on my right shoulder. Getting up out of bed at this some what life absorbing hour feeling torn and battered from the luxuries of the weekend, once again feeling the strained spine and bad back motions from the chains that surround my very generic office swivel desk chair, in that formal air-conditioned unit breathing the same as every other freedom seeking soul.
With the blind now rolled up to reveal the street light estate in which I live, a few other curtains like mine are hazily open with small shudders of others getting ready to leave for the day. Sneaking downstairs alone, desperate not to wake the family, deactivating the second alarm for the morning and entering the kitchen to fill my bowl with well marketed health filled oats, adding milk then microwaved – the ease of the twenty-first century. The time now set for two minutes, the clock ticking again as I still begin to wonder ‘can I ditch work?’ Again the right side wins. Armed with my spoon the time is up and predictably as the every day norm goes I stop the timer with one second to spare, the OCD in me telling that I have saved myself from the timer and any unnecessary attention being drawn from anywhere else in the home.
Now to the living room, undressing the blinds being able to see a small glimmer of sunlight peaking around the garden alley emotionally this rings a lot nicer. Digging into breakfast, usually food at anytime is good but this just feels like disappearing sunlight, using my t-shirt as a sort of guard against the crucifixion of the heat from my microwaved bowl. The last spoonful now filling my mouth, my mind hoping for more of this edible substance but instead I am retained to the routine. Back to the kitchen for the same glass of water that every morning brings, swilling it around my mouth, cooling the taste buds of my tongue. A sort of cold burn now felt as I reach the final ounce of my glass, imagining that today’s tasks are soon to be completed, my eyelids now like shutters are they open? Should they be closed? Breathing through the tapping pain felt at the forefront of the brain, relaxing the mind as a sort of hug to say that everything will be just fine.
As I carefully place the glass on the kitchen surface for the first time in twenty-four hours I know that the next stage is to come.
On the very bridges of my toes, slowly but efficiently making advances up the stairs to the bathroom for the penultimate stop. Checking my image and sleepy eye filled appearance in the mirror should I wet comb my hair to make it look more appealing? Probably. Reaching for my toothbrush, a lucky guess to get this one right with the light being off as to minimise the noise of the shattering fan that would fill the vicinity; I show the brush to the window pane hoping to shed a little colour on this grey situation. Once I can be sure of my ownership to this brush I take a grasp for the toothpaste, three stripes as always as though to be patriotic to the fresh feeling to come. Now squeezing the end of the tube a small stripe is displayed onto the brush a small rinse and ready to go in. The top first, hoping to reach all faces and every tooth as an equal. Onto the bottom as the paste now runs sparse perhaps I spent too long focusing on the top and not saving enough for the lower row? A small rush to give the remaining bodies a quick shine before spitting out the scum. After three hundred and sixty-five days at the least, even the toothpaste begins to taste the same, with a lack of freshness and excitement just like me. Doing its job and providing a small service to the all-powerful world. Still having uses but all too constant and much of the same in order to be rewarded with the cold hard paper stuff.
Finally in this room I wash, lather my hands and then leave on the trigger of the almost silent plug hole gargle to the bedroom.
Time to get changed into a shirt and some formal trousers in order to fit the criteria of the role. Gathering some socks, underwear and my attire I change and feel unlike the toothpaste a little more fresh and worthy. Spraying only a small amount of deodorant under the arms and around the body, immunity to the smell and effect that I once felt. Buttoning the shirt and pulling up the trousers now I am ready. The day can almost too immediately face me, as I do it, until another blast of the alarm my morning routine is far away from me now.
It’s over as I lock the front door behind me and climb into the car, turning to the ignition only nine to five awaits.
Closing disclaimer: On a more serious and personality filled note, never did I ever think that I could be so in-depth about toothpaste. But there it was, thank you I guess to the creativity that I can now hone and to the dark spots and uncontrollable down points that come with it.