My neurotic morning routine

My job requires me to arrive each morning at 7:45. It's been weeks since I've rolled into the
parking lot before 8:00. In fact, most days I don't leave the apartment until 7:50. I've been
pondering this recently, and have come to the conclusion that my chronic lateness may have
one of three possible explanations:

1). I'm not overly enamored of my job at the moment.

2). I never wake up to Molly Ringwald nibbling on my ear and cooing, "Wake up, wake up,
time for some Molly-love."

3). My neurotic morning routine is hampering my ability to get ready on time.

My neurotic morning routine begins with my alarm clock. It is set for 6:15, but both my body
and my conscience know we will never get out of bed at 6:15; it is part of a deal the three
of us strike every night, as part of my neurotic evening routine. The plan is that the alarm
will go off at 6:15, I will acknowledge it, snooze it, and continue to sleep until 6:30, or as
close to 6:30 as my snooze-timing mechanism can approximate.

That never works, of course, so I continue to sleep and snooze until the voice of the NPR
commentator on my alarm clock says the dread words: "It's eleven minutes before the
hour." I don't know why the announcer couldn't just say "6:49" like everyone else in the
civilized world; perhaps then it wouldn't be so frightening, so disturbing, so... unnatural.
Whatever it is, the words get me out of bed, and I stagger toward the bathroom.

So far, you're thinking: okay, he snoozes his alarm. Big deal. Everyone does that, right?
Except there's a reason why I'm snoozing the alarm: it's a little game I play with my
conscience, a game that has to do with the degree to which I hate working out in the
morning.

I hate working out at any time of the day, actually; I can't stand any kind of repetitive behavior
(which is ironic, since I do the same thing every morning of every day). I am especially
susceptible to this in the morning, however, which is why I've broken my morning workout
into little chunks: 25 sit-ups, then shave, then 25 crunches, 20 push-ups, then make the
bed; 25 cross-crunches, then feed the lizard (this is an actual lizard, not code for anything
else), then 25 of those taekwondo sit-ups Trish taught me as part of Humiliation Week,
then shower. All of this has to be done in Exactly the Right Order, or my internal balance
falls off.

This is a fairly simple workout, but I keep finding reasons not to participate in it: can't
decide what CD to listen to, MTV's stopped showing videos, too much stuff on the floor...
The best reason of all, of course, is that it's too late, so it's critical to time my waking up.
If I got up at 6:15, I'd have to complete the whole workout. If I'm up by 6:30 or even 6:40,
I'll have to get through at least half of it before reverting to Panic Mode. If it's eleven minutes
before the hour, I can scratch the whole thing and just jump in the shower.

Despite the fact that I'm usually overwhelmed with fear by now (I can't stand being late)
I still have to go through the rest of my routine. I have two kinds of shampoo and three
kinds of conditioner that I rotate depending on the days of the week and my mood (for
some reason, on really difficult days I find it comforting to smell like a coconut). I have two
kinds of razors -- the Tracer and the dreaded Mach 3 -- which I also rotate on the theory
that my all-but-indestructible beard, which goes through a razor in about four days, would develop some kind of immunity if I kept using the same kind of blades on it.

Then there's the issue of breakfast. I usually have cereal, but I never want to have the same
kind of cereal two days in a row. There are some days when I'm so late that I only have a
Pop-Tart (it doesn't take as long to eat a Pop-Tart, despite the toasting time, because there
isn't all that mucking around with the milk). I have to read the newspaper while eating
breakfast and I usually read the comics page, because it's the least depressing part of
the paper and I actually do want to know what's happening with the "Curtis" storyline.

After breakfast I generally spend a good two to five minutes trying to remember what I've
forgotten to do before it's time to go. On days when I know I'll be staying late at work,
there's so much stuff to bring with me -- backpack, briefcase, portable stereo, CDs,
leftovers for dinner, something to drink, clothes to change into, cell phone -- and so many
things to remember -- set the VCR to tape "Lois and Clark," bring the phone number of that
person I'm supposed to call, cut out that newspaper article for class -- that I almost
always forget something. I usually remember it just as I'm pulling out of the parking lot,
so that unless someone plays something really good on the radio, I end up at work in a
foul mood.

Now here's the amazing thing: no matter what time I leave the apartment, I always end up
at work AT THE SAME TIME. Even on those rare days when I wake up at 6:15, something
happens -- I receive a phone call, there's construction on my street, I get stuck behind a
school bus -- and I still arrive at 8 a.m. The same thing happens when I spill out the
door at 7:55 -- by some miracle, I roll into work in five minutes. I don't know why this
should be the case, but it's removed all incentive for me ever to get up on time or attempt
to modify what is surely unhealthy behavior on my part, at least until Molly Ringwald
decides to become a part of my life.