Look at this… thing.
This is what happens when you absently force your lunch bag into an overbooked briefcase. Pliable contents, including my cheese-ass cheese sandwich, must submit themselves, enslaved contortionists of the gastronomic world. I’ll still eat this friggin’ ’round-the-corner sandwich, though. I’m not scared. But how did this happen? Blame it on that collision between shifting bodies and time, aka, the morning routine.
Getting the kids out of the house and myself to work is a full-contact sport, a Mixed Martial Arts showdown. My sandwich, submitted in the 1st round, wrapped-up by a can of normally inert V8, is but one of this morning’s losses. My ego is the second casualty.
Around 7:40am, 5 minutes before scheduled departure, I become mentally castrated by Optimus Prime. This ages 5+ Intermediate Level 2 Transformer is a real son-of-a-b*tch. Believe me, I normally stay away from this cataclysm of engineering, but this morning Jack innocently asks that I transform him from robot to truck. Let’s just say I force some plastic into place. In the end most of Optimus’ limbs exhibit that white glow associated with bent plastic. Sorry Autobots.
I wash my hands of the event, literally, by squirting 2 helpings of Eucalyptus Mint soap. My wife, hovering, admonishes my excess.
“You only need one squirt!“
Coolly, “Good to hear.”
Eventually I arrive at work, where coffee and classical music refuel my soul. Funny thing is, I can’t wait to get back home and re-immerse myself in the chaos. There’s something addictive about the family melee, the plate tectonics of people that reminds me I’m alive. Ok, so it’s not that philosophical. If I could just transform that damn Autobot!