Outed by Facebook
I've been outed by Facebook. How? Well, it seems my status updates of late have gotten lots of attention. Not for their wit, thank you very much, or for their frightening descriptions of life here on the funny farm. No, they've been singled out for something I'd no idea anyone would notice.
The time they're posted.
What? 4 a.m. isn’t normal?
In the last three days alone I've gotten at least half a dozen emails and notes on my "wall" asking why I get up so early, what do I do “in the dark", and the big question, what time do I pass out at night? The answer: nine o’clock if there’s no wine involved; eight o’clock if I’ve had a drink with dinner. Yes, it’s been a long, long time since I’ve made it past the 7:30 Seinfeld. And no, my husband doesn’t find it funny.
I have to tell you; the “what do I do ‘in the dark’" question really cracked me up. For starters, I turn on a light. The last time I brewed coffee in the pitch black I made it with milk replacer. It's like baby formula. For cows. Great if you like a cuppa joe that gets your gag reflex going. Since I don't, I opt for a little illumination.
My predisposition toward rising with the roosters set in sometime in middle school. I don't know who I dissed during puberty to be saddled with the same internal alarm clock as livestock, but St. Peter and I are having a big 'ol "Come to Jesus" when I get to the pearly gates. Thirty-something years later, my morning routine remains much the same as when I was in sixth grade.
I get up, brush my scummy numbers, and slip on my sneaks. I make coffee – minus the milk replacer – suck it down, and force myself to go to my computer. Back in the days of bunny fur jackets and crushed velvet hip huggers I went to an IBM Selectric but still, you get the picture. There, I work out my angst. What angst, you ask? The ceaseless, unyielding, 24/7, 365-days-a-year fear that I’ll never be funny again. That the last humorous bit, piece, or post I wrote will be The Last I Ever Write.
And then, when I’ve been at my desk about an hour and given myself at least one good giggle, (I subscribe to the Mel Brooks school of comedic writing which says, “If you laugh, they’re gonna laugh”), I reward myself with my own private Jazzercise class. Lead by me. For me. Just to kick my own butt. And to celebrate the fact that I don’t suck.
Yet.
Tomorrow? Anything’s possible. It could be a whole different story. But at least I know how it’ll start. And when.
Susan McCorkindale writes about life on the funny farm on her daily blog, or just buy the book, Confessions of a Counterfeit Farm Girl.
An original DC Metro Moms post.
