By Marisa Porter
PROMPT — Who am I today?
Blinking my eyes, taking in the sunlight I can tell right away that my mood isn’t matching the bright blue sky. The birds are chirping away and the crooked slit in the curtain annoys me. It would suit me better if it were overcast and rainy. One of those dark-and-stormy openers in scary stories.
I want to sigh because it’s going to be a sighing-at-anything, irritated-by-the-little-things kind of day. I woke up on the wrong side of the bed apparently.
Stop being so ungrateful.
Sighing again. What is the point? It is difficult to look your privilege in the face and realize that life could be a lot worse. I woke up in a bed, warm and surrounded by my things. Lucky or not, my mood was foul, and I could feel the darkness creeping in.
Stop being so ungrateful then, my nasty sidekick chipped in. Great. This would be a day where I would forcibly argue with myself over every little thing. Aside from feeling irritated and ungrateful, I am now starting to feel crazy. Surely, I would cheer up over a steaming hot cup of coffee.
Cream in your coffee? Again? Aren’t you putting on a little poundage? Yep, there was that signature body dig. My faceless companion was alive and fiery this morning. There she was, grinning from ear to ear and to spite her, I poured extra creamer in.
There are digital deadlines to meet, but I don’t care. Meetings to be had and I already blew them off in my mental schedule. I am breezing through the apartment in my housecoat tossing my cellphone aside. No need to be inviting today. No need to be so available. I sit in my darkest corner with my over-creamed coffee.
Yuck. That is way too sweet. I pucker my lips. But I will still drink it. There is a spark and I feel like throwing the whole mug away. I’m all alone and I can’t express what I want to. To be fair, there is a 5-year-old sleeping here too, but I’m extremely certain he won’t understand my current sentiments.
I’m frustrated because I can’t articulate my mood. I’m a writer and I can’t say what I really want to say. Sometimes it is difficult to pinpoint the exact source of discomfort but it is there. Buried. Every once in a while, she will appear and lash out.
I sip the coffee and this time I savor the sweetness. Oddly, it seems to offer a calming effect in these churning waters that is my morning.
I want to go swimming. My son announces immediately upon waking. Now I’m guilty because the day outside looks gorgeous, but we won’t enjoy it. We can’t enjoy it. I’m feeling rebellious because I’m thinking maybe we should break the rules.
You? Break the rules? You’re too much of a coward. Bitchy-me reminds me. Oops. How could I forget that she was awake this morning? Of course, I wouldn’t break those rules. I’m not heartless but that doesn’t make me a coward does it?
I won’t contain this attitude so I will sit in solitude until she leaves. She will. She always comes back, and I feel her lurking in the shadows, but on this beautiful day she has taken over and it looks like she might be staying for lunch too.
Speaking of lunch, my son is starting to whine. He’s been awake for a total of twenty minutes and now he’s on about wanting ramen noodles for lunch. The kind that has too much salt. The kind that mothers are not supposed to give to their kids. The kind that I have hidden deep in my cupboards for these days when I really don’t care. Today, nutrition is not on my mind. Clearly, with the double-creamed coffee that I am still attempting to drink.
Who am I today? I’m grouchy, I’m touchy, I’m ignorant, I’m selfish, I’m tired, I’m disinterested in showing up in any way. I’m staying in my fluffy pink housecoat and not doing a damn thing I don’t feel like.
Marisa Porter is a passionate writer, writing about life as it pertains to her. She is a travel writer, as well as writing short fiction and creative non-fiction. Marisa has written for digital travel magazines and maintains a personal blog. When she is not writing, you can find her reading. Marisa, originally from Canada, travels with her young son, homeschooling him along the way.