Today was one of those mornings when my mother has to grab me by the ankles and tug to remove my nails from the sheets. I put on my shirt backwards, and took a whole ten minutes to help Weiner with his pants (such a daunting enterprise!) because, despite being maniacal, feral children in the mornings, we both know cooperation is a must if we are to reach the bus stop fully clothed (and without my mom foaming at the mouth).
I trudge to the bathroom, hangover-style, almost collapsing several times on the linoleum.
Most days, I just stick in my contact lenses, gargle, and then look at my utterly depressed reflexion in the mirror as I debate with how I shall conquer the raging evil that is my hair today.
Give me some green dye, and I can totally do Medusa. Heck, I could probably be all three Gorgon sisters. At the same time.
Unfortunately, at my school, people do not seem to appreciate fashion statements in the form of Greek monster-esque hair do’s. So I have to at least attempt to make my insanely curly hair half-way decent. It usually doesn’t work, but whatever. I console myself by telling myself that obsession over self-appearance is a modern contrivance that needs to be done away with. I imagine standing up to all the fluttery-glittery-bougainvillea girls in my class.
“I have a dream! A school with no cliques, or peer pressure! In which complexions and sizes and hair are irrelevant! And, while I’m at it, guys in the back, could you start a topic of conversation that doesn’t involve football? Or Ronaldinho? And girls – there are more interesting things to talk about that Elsa Pataky’s plastic surgery. And how hot Zac Efron is versus Brad Pitt. C’MON.”
By the time I am done with this imaginary escapade, my mother is calling (or rather, screeching) from the kitchen.
So I flash myself an uber confident grin and Sarah Palin’s patented wink. You betcha!
And that’s when I realize that my shirt is on backwards.