Seven thirty am. That’s the alarm going off. I wake up – no – not really, just well enough to hit the snooze button.
Crap. Seven thirty five. This cannot be happening so quickly. Surely five minutes was not that short? Okay. So I wake up momentarily, contemplate waking up now, as it means I have enough time to get ready, have coffee and take my twists from the night before out and do the fluffy thing I’ve seen the girls with-two-years-of-hair-growth-vitamin-taking-bra strap-length-hair-having-naturalistas on YouTube do. Incidentally, I also have been growing my hair for two years. Except, where the majority of these YouTube fraudsters ladies have bra strap length hair and longer, I have collar bone length hair. But that is a topic for another time.
*Zzzzzz – Beeeeeeeep!*
Seven forty five am? Already? This cannot be happening. Work starts at eight thirty, and I need coffee before I start because I need to be awake and alert to smile and converse in a manner which is acceptable when explaining the architectural designs of their extravagant homes to the rich and richer clients at Collingwoods & Co. Without coffee before ten thirty, I am a psychedelic mess of a human. My vocabulary is reduced to a few “mm hmms” and “uh huhs” amidst other sentences which, mind, are not decipherable by humanity in the slightest.
Must. Tell. Boss. That. I. Have. Condition. Where. Doctor. Advices. I. Am. Not. Fit. To. Work. Before. Ten o’ clock.
Of course this is a lie, and I have no conditions other than my uninhibited affection for sleep and absolute disapproval of mornings. And if I did actually go to interviews with this obviously barmy tale, I will never be able to afford the Maserati Granturismo I have wanted since I saw it in a magazine when I was fifteen, or finally fulfil my dreams of living in a cottage by the riverside in New Orleans.
* * *
It is now eight o’clock, and behold, I am just leaving the comfort of my bed and its promises of love and sweet dreams of my darling Theophilus DeBarge who lives by the bayou and comes from a line of wealthy Southern money –
Oops. Definitely too late to do the youtube-y hair thing now, as time is ticking away and there are no clothes on my body, and I’m still searching frantically for something presentable to wear. This is not good. Definitely not going to get any coffee at this rate.
Among the pile of clothes strewn across the bed (clothes pulled out from the wardrobe I constantly have to arrange due to my regular frantic searchings), I find a shirt fit for the days festivities, grab the nearest trousers to me, a cardigan which, on normal days I would never pair with these trousers, but alas. Frantic Search Tuesday has reduced me to committing such fashion blunders, and it cannot be helped, BECAUSE IT IS NOW eight fifteen, and I have to leave the house in five minutes. I grab my purse, bag, bag of sweets on the bedside table, as a sugar hit may hold me till I can sneak away and inhale some caffeine, and ohh! a scarf! Surely this silky wonder can hide my twists away from the public if I tied it and made a pretty bow at the front, like a good southern woman capable of attracting Theophilus DeBarge in all his Southern glory would? I go with the scarf. I must look somewhat presentable, I presume, if not for anything else but the pretty scarf with abstract designs of pastel pink and purple adorning my not-to-be-seen-in-public twists of horror.
By the time I actually leave the house, it is eight twenty two. This leaves me with only six minutes to walk to work and get there in time to look in the mirror to see if I have managed to venture out into the world looking less like ET and more like – I don’t know – the average human. There was no time for make up, but then again, that stopped being a part of my morning routine after the first week of work, with the exception of my ever trusty strawberry lip gloss which I am never without. I am not expecting to look into the mirror at work and see the reflection before me however. What is meant to make me look like Anna Mae from New Orleans only highlights the bunches of twists atop my head, making them look like little mountain peaks. My shirt is creased from being flung around in my room, and I have, as such are the woes that befall me on a regular basis, managed to pick the trousers I wore last Thursday to the work welcome party which I spilt mango juice on whilst talking to Dave from the IT department, a moment I vowed never to remember as I happen to feature in many similar predicaments, that I have to choose which are of more importance to remember.
My only options at this point are to either (hoping no one saw me come in), walk back out and call in with a lame excuse about needing to take Rhett Butler (my Yorkshire Terrier and trusty confidante) to the vet for the fourth time this month, or faint right there in the women’s toilets and hope someone comes in soon after and alerts the entire floor. In the end, I decide to do the right thing and go into the boardroom and sit as quickly as possible, so that no one, especially Abercrombie & Fitch model who I do not believe for one minute is an architect of any sort, notices my mango juice trousers and crumpled shirt. This is my window of opportunity. I may just be able to steam past Liz, who occupies the office adjacent to mine, wave and point towards the boardroom to notify her that I have a meeting to rush off to so she does not come out for a “quick chat” that will last thirty minutes. I set off from the toilets now, folder in hand, ready to slide into that chair that will hide my trousers, focusing intently and solely on my destination when –
I collide, face first, with a male chest. A very hard male chest for that matter, I think subconsciously. My folder and its contents are all over the floor in different directions, and Hard Male Chest Owner is holding my arms to make sure I’m steady on my feet before he lets go of me. Not surprisingly, Hard Male Chest Owner is also in possession of Hard Toned Arms, which is hard not notice because they are wrapped around my spindly contenders. This is obviously not my day. Not that I usually step out of the house looking like Joan Collins during her Dynasty days or anything, but with some make up on and trousers without juice stains and my hair looking somewhat presentable, I make for an okay looking twenty something year old. Unlike the Wizard of Oz that I look like today, at this moment, whilst being held by Hard Male Chest Owner who I bet, because I have been cursed with the worst luck in the universe, belongs to Abercrombie Architect.
Which is why, when he finally lets go of my arms and I am steady enough to stand and look at him to say thank you, I am not surprised to be staring into the cool blue eyes of Abercrombie Architect himself.
It’s been forever! Do forgive me for the lack of posts, but as my introduction may or may not have mentioned, I am currently knee deep in revision for my professional exams that I’m having to neglect this little space o’ paradise of mine. Hope you enjoy the short story. I wrote it a couple of years ago on a whim, and as per usual, no one really read it. So here it is, hope you all find this as funny as I did conjuring up the characters!
Till next time,