Bad Days, Just Like Parkour, Are All In Your Head

According to science, "bad days" do not actually exist.  The concept that the entire universe has conspired to create an entire day of misery just for you, is remarkably egocentric.

However, bad days do exist and they start the moment your alarm clock decides that it is now observing its very own timezone and keeps it a secret until you get home, go to sleep and get woken in the middle of the night, when it makes its celebratory announcement: "TA DA!"

Back to the beginning. On such unlucky days, rather than oversleep, something or someone will wake me just in time to engage in endless, (useless yet soothing), swearing, because not only will I be late, but there is no time to eat or shower.  Panicked, I spring out of bed and find myself entangled in bedsheets that are starting their next career as a parachute. I'll count your threads later!

Potential disaster averted, maybe a few bruises, who needs that little mutant of a vestigial toe anyway, more expletives, (useless yet soothing), I am now pumped full of cortisol and adrenaline, ready to fight or flight.  Barefooted, I stumble and curse my way into the hallway, where I step in something warm and wet, "WHAT THE...? UGH!" only to discover a strategically placed hairball stuck to the sole of my foot.

Dragging bedsheets behind me I am limping and hopping on one foot, while the other is used heel only, until I can wipe it off with something other than carpet.  No time for a shower, the soiled foot has to undergo a quick disinfection. A true yoga master of flexibility, the foot is lifted into the sink and shocked into self-awareness by being blasted with cold water since absolutely nothing works in the morning.  This makes me howl, stumble backward on the one remaining leg (whose stupid idea was it to make us bipeds), lose my balance and wake up in the bathtub.

There is no time to rest! In a blur of activity I manage to put on something that resembles professional attire, step out the front door in a race against time and financial setbacks, only to discover that my beloved old car is not where I left it.  While my brain is still preoccupied by the lack of post-fast nutrients and therefore unable to comprehend this new development, my subconscious has already decided that calling Officer "FML, I hate the public" is not an efficient use of my time at this point.

I will be asked time-consuming questions of complete insignificance: "Are you suuuure you parked it there? When was the last time you saw your vehicle?" and "Are you certain old Uncle Bob did not borrow it again?"

Yes! Last night! I don't own an Uncle Bob! Can you just write the report and find it, the insurance company owes me money!

Calling a taxi as I run down the street in no particular direction is not feasible, as my cell phone is still at home, nesting comfortably in its warm and cozy charger. Of course, halfway to the public transportation system, I vaguely recall that I own a bicycle, which I just recently oiled and tuned and which would have transported me to my place of employ considerably faster and with less squeezing and shoving than any other mode of transportation during the morning rush hour.

Rush Hour by Slinkachu

This is likely the one day that the entrance to the deep bowels of sliding doors has either chosen to follow up on Mrs. Tripplecott's tip "I smell like gas," closed for renovation, maintenance or saw me coming.  Diverted, I race toward my destination, while visualizing spectacular Parkour skills, turning public spaces into my personal bowling alley, sending Starbucks cups and peop...., uummm....no, just Starbucks cups, flying. Profusely apologetic, "Ramming through. Sorry. Pardon me," I plough through morning commuters, because even in dire circumstances; manners matter.

Finally, I arrive at the big building, formerly known as my last place of employment, my light blue shirt transformed into a shiny, saturated, deep shade of sapphire. Nice! Somewhere along my journey I lost a shoelace, my dignity, but in exchange picked up a sequined purse and some fliers.

I dislocate my shoulder while trying to open the entrance door, which refuses to do so.  It appears that in my brief absence, my colleagues lost their morale and motivation and went home. Frantically, I wave at the security guard, who is deeply engrossed in reading his book "10 Steps Toward Your Next 10 Steps". I manage to catch his attention and watch him swagger toward me in slow motion, twirling his ultimate Weapon of Power, the Key, attached to his belt by a retractable chain.

"WHAT" *gasp* IS GOING *wheeze* ON?!" I wheeze.

It would be a really bad day if I told you that he said: "It's Sunday."