Waiting to be Washed. in Good Morning Providence.

I awoke to the pleasant chime of "platinum" set as the default alarm on my tablet, and was pulled from, as I recall, a rather disgusting dream involving my cleaning up other people's excrement strewn about my bathroom. While I expressed frustration regarding such a filthy task, more effort went into concealing it, rather than correcting potential plumbing issues. Still, I'm glad the dream was cut short, though I'm certain my therapist would have a field day with that one. Short of eight hours, my slumber failed to refresh. Still, I sought to go about my morning routine: The Kettlebells, the shave, shower, and ha-ha, and a healthy breakfast. In an attempt to go about the first, I found my father, passed out on our sofa-- something he hasn't done in at least a month (much to my satisfaction...flat panel television is mounted to our living room wall, which is adjacent to my bedroom. Come 1:30, two hours into my sleep, I awoke to the dull croak of a movie from the 1950's, rattling my wall, and fumbled through the darkness of my bedroom, putting on a pair of underpants and knocking over my classical guitar, and sending harsh crash and din throughout the hallway. I march into the hallway, speech garbled by fatigue, somehow remaining polite, requesting my father turn off the television). I awaken my father, whom in his fatigue, requests that we postpone my workout to the evening. I, likewise weighted by fatigue, agree, then depart for my bedroom for another hour of sleep. Come 7:30, with most of my faculties about me, I walk down the hall, towards my bathroom, as I hear the front door shut, announcing my mother's departure for work. Turning on the vent, then opening the adjacent window, I start the shower, then step on the small, digital scale beneath the two towel racks. 169 lbs. at 6'2''. Not bad, I suppose...considering last night's and Tuesday's missed hours on the track, and week spent more sedentary than usual. A week like this is fine, I suppose. Stepping into the shower, I use the Norwegian sea salt bar soap, intentionally digging its exposed, jagged surface against my skin. It's like sandpaper. The sensation's incomparable. I follow with the Aveno foam cleanser, Kiehl's exfoliant (as it's an even-numbered day), and Aveno men's shaving cream, all within a window of ten minutes. I'm still toned, still focused, and in mostly good spirits...though longing for so much....Clean as a fucking whistle, casually dressed, bespectacled, fed, coiffed, I bid my father farewell, then hit the short road to work. With a full half hour to myself prior to heading to the office, I hit Quito Road, listening to an NPR editorial regarding LA's response to the current drought, an overly upbeat-sounding expert on the matter weighing the options of incentive vs. punishment for overuse, and a retrospective on the drought in the 70's. Bored by tone and hyperbolic banter, I switch the dial to 103.3, halfway through slow, chunky, Band-of-Horses'-Great-Salt-Lake layered guitar accompanied by a pleasant soprano, I'm intrigued enough to use the appropriate function on my phone, then learn of a new artist. 10:35, and time to spare, I turn onto Cox Road, and headed for Gene's Fine Foods for a few morning staples: Kombucha, Braeburn Apple, and organic-gluten-free-chocolate-who-gives-a-fuck-(?)-protein bar, having a pleasant conversation with the slapheaded man behind the counter. I return to the usual route, making a soft right onto Saratoga Road...Fifteen minutes remaining, I have time for tea as well. Less than a block from the office, I turn into the parking lot of The Coffee Factory, hoping to order some iced jasmine tea. Rose is working behind the counter, wearing a bandana print tunic, and less makeup than usual. The usual small talk, she asks how I've been faring in recent weeks, to which I respond with the same default response: "Save for a few snags here and there, I've been in good spirits."
"Well, that's just being human, I guess," she responds with a soft smile.
I nod, rolling my eyes at the simplicity, though inescapable truth of the statement. I ask how she's been holding up since last we spoke, to which she replies, "I've been in Maui...I really needed it," she says, decompressing.