There are almost twenty snails crawling around in the sandbox. These strange, crepuscular mollusks have always been one of my favorite parts of being up early in the morning. I throw on a pair of thongs and walk into the yard, letting my feet sink into the wet grass as I squat awkwardly to get a closer look at them. They’re crawling on everything every which way but seem particularly fond of the flower graveyard, a disorganized pile of rotting plants where all my past bouquets have gone to die. Plenty of nutrients for a growing snail, I suppose. The sky is only getting lighter, though, so after a couple minutes, I leave them to snack to their hearts’ content.
I put a face on today. I keep forgetting, though, so every time I pass the mirror, I don’t recognize myself at first. I look so much more coherent, so much more alive. I’m not entirely sure who that woman is, but she looks pretty, so that’s cool. I tried something different with my hair, too. I’m not really sure why. Maybe I’m bored. Maybe I want to be different. Maybe I’m having a full-blown identity crisis. Maybe I just felt like switching it up.
When I enter the café, the handsome barista greets me with a casual heeeeyy, how’s it goin’? I throw him a couple of peace signs in response and make some idle conversation as he puts in my order. He asks if I want the usual and I say yes, please. He compliments my pants and I do a little pose to show them off. Ugh, he is so damn pretty. I tell him today I will finally be reunited with my true love, Gym (first name: The). He doesn’t hear me at first and seems genuinely excited for me. What an angel. The joke does eventually land, if a bit wobbly, and he walks behind the bar to personally make my drink.
At my desk, I rush to catch up on work I missed last week. Little sticky notes at the bottom of my monitor announce all my tasks—one even reminds me to eat—and I tear them away triumphantly as I tick each one off. A coworker I haven’t had the chance to chat with in a while shows up at the office in a vibrant outfit that I enthusiastically praise the moment she walks in. She comments in turn on my shoes, saying people must be able to see me coming for miles, and leaves as quickly as she came. It’s midday by the time I actually do remember to eat, and one mediocre apple heads down the gullet as mush.
As foretold, my reunion with the gym is a glorious one. My skin is practically buzzing with anticipation; I’m in such desperate need for a run. Upstairs, my feet pound into the strange rubber path that spins around the treadmill at six miles an hour until the euphoria takes over and I can hardly breathe. The fury finally subsides down to a dull ache I can nearly tune out. I’m there for less than an hour before heading home for the night, but I find myself feeling just incrementally lighter.