Two Minutes of Fight

Emerging from a dream state, I focus intently on shoving my mind from one side of reality to another. After exchanging the mayhem of weekday insanity for the liberation of a brisk breeze blowing through four open windows and the sun graciously casting its warmth through the roof of my recently waxed car, the futility of this exercise quickly makes itself apparent.

Rolling onto the runway, I await an okay from the air traffic controller. Nothing. The voice of my director is muted by the weight of heavy eyelids and a painful tingling in the back of my throat. The mere task of cracking my jaw open for the insertion of a toothbrush encounters opposition by the lack of mitochondrial activity in my facial muscles.

Two minutes. That's the time it takes to complete a full cycle of automatic brushing. Bzzzzz. I stare blankly at myself in the mirror - an act I later recall only as something I've physically performed, leaving nothing but a vague impression of the image before me.

Twenty-five seconds. My efforts are waning. The minute, high frequency tremor in my palm ceases abruptly. I am no further along in my task than I was the moment I reached for the window blinds that let the morning sun into my grog infested room.

I acquiesce, allowing the day to speak for itself.