And

(October 09, 2001)

And Morning. Sandbags for limbs, cotton batting for brains.

And a Herculean feat of endurance crawling out of bed, and then I'm standing in the tub. Faucet. On. Leaning against the cold, colorless tile wall, I'm wishing the water were both hotter and more assertive. Sparse, needly water-saving thing. And I can't stop sneezing. And some cat is shadow boxing the swaying shower curtain. And the litter box stinks.

And I can't wait to turn on the TV to face what news of destruction has befallen the world overnight. It's always in the mornings and at night right before I fall asleep that it hits me again: my country got attacked; we're counterattacking. This thing is actually on.

And I'm not waking up. It's going to be a bad day.

And it occurs to me that I can gauge the physical and emotional temperature of my day based on how many of the seven dwarves I emulate in the morning.

This morning I am Sneezy, Sleepy, and Grumpy.

And it's not good.