I have a good heart, just can’t catch a break

Or at least that’s the way it felt this morning.

Of late, I’ve had such a problem actually getting out of my house in the morning. I have no idea what I’m doing that’s taking so much longer than usual. . . unless it’s the actual act of getting out of bed. Which is difficult, when (like you, Dawn!) I keep staying up later than usual to watch the Olympics. (Because I feel personally involved in the medal race. And I heart Michael Phelps.) Well, I know what caused the later-ness today: I got a haircut yesterday and basically I was playing with my hair this morning.

All that said, when I finally got out the door and into my car, it was after 6:30 a.m. And I generally like to leave before then. Oh, well. I drove on to the exit from the complex. OK, the entrance to my complex isn’t situated in the best of spots. Because if you want to turn right, which I did, you have to spend a few minute staring to your left making sure no one is blasting around the big, huge curve and possibly preparing to blast you and your car into oblivion. Today, there was a string of about seven cars coming around this curve. 7! All summer it’s been zilch; school starts back and traffic goes nuts. Then I get down to the intersection with Nolensville, where I want to turn right and head toward the city. You guessed it, traffic is backed up. This does NOT happen at 6:30 a.m. on my street, folks. I have NO idea what was going on.

Finally, I’m on Nolensville, and I’m fairly sure that “yellow” light I raced through was in fact red. Because it’s now almost 20 minutes to 7 a.m., I’m trying to figure out what’s the best way to get into town. This decision is highly influenced by what traffic lights are green and which are red. Based on this Magic 8-Ball formula, I end up on Harding Road. It’s at this point that I feel someone staring at me. I turn to my left and see a car full  of creepy guys staring—no, leering—at me. Just my luck. In a world of who knows how many cute single men, I get the the car full of creepy leerers with bad teeth. Because, seriously, that’s how I roll.

Finally—FINALLY—I make it onto the interstate and only have to yell at one driver. I’m not sure how many traffic laws—and “pink” lights I sped through—but I’m here.

And now I have to work. Bleh.

(Oh, and Mindy: I don’t know who signed me up for this.)