The rude awakening

I knew the alarm would soon ring and wondered how much longer did I have in bed.
I didn't sleep well because I had too much to eat the night before. My belly still felt full. Outside the window, the sky was pale blue. I heard a seagull. Silence. Then the train. Soon it would start all over again.
As I waited for the dreaded alarm my mind played games with me. How many sick days had I taken that year? Would I get away with another one? But no, what about the strategic sickies? Yes, it had all been scripted. Eat burger on Thursday, feel very ill. Leave office after lunch. Meet girlfriend at airport. Return Monday morning. Pray for no delays. Sceptic co-workers' cross-examination.
No. Not that day. I had to go to work.
As I laid on my back and stared at the ceiling I wondered. What shameless lies would I have to tell? To get through the day. To add value to the business and get paid and in turn pay the bills, the mortgage, the habits. Me against the world. A war of attrition. Putting me further away from the reach of god and closer to the underworld counterpart. Further from the light. Nearer to the darkness. As I was able to waste some precious little time in a self-indulging existencial crisis, the alarm rang, derailing my train of thought and restoring normality.
No. I was not ready so the alarm was set to snooze. And as I did so, I noticed a text message on the phone.
It was a joke about a man accused of rape in real life. As soon as the realisation came, I stopped myself from reading until the end. Why are people so horrible?
The weatherman said the night before, 23 degrees and a chance of rain in the afternoon.
The alarm rang again and the routine began in earnest.
Stretch. Legs, back, arms. Neck, shoulders. It hurt because I was indoctrinated into believing pain was a good sign. I must befriend the pain. And break all pain barriers, the sooner, the better. The quicker I got over them, the further I would leave the competition behind.
In the mirror I saw the image of a loser. That was me. With bags under my eyes and marginally in need of a shave but like many other marginal necessities it waited until the morrow.
Two multivitamin pills. One gulp of cod liver oil. Piss on my hands, in the sink. Wait for a few seconds. Wash. One day I would be visited by cosmetics mafia desperately wanting to conceal this secret. The benefits of uric acid. They would kill me. I would die a violent and sudden death. As I gave up the ghost, my life would flash before my eyes. They would be scenes of my childhood, in slow-motion. Like a super-8 film, colours fading and complete with scratches. Then the darkness would cover my eyes and I would join the scientists who keep on discovering the water combustion engine.
But that was not to be the day. I would survive to piss on my hands again.
Upstairs I heard frantic foot steps. Two pairs. One heavier with longer intervals. The male. One lighter and more frequent. The female.
They rushed from the kitchen to the bathroom. From the bathroom to the hallway and back to the living room where the wallet had been forgotten. Then the stampede down the stairs. It was nearing 8 o'clock.
Time did not wait by and I had been moved to the minutes-late-for-work terrain. Currently just under 5, all else being well.
Soon I was pushing the pedals up the hill. My head felt exposed. I had forgotten my helmet. Damn. The helmet would have a day off.