I tried so damn hard not to be. I set my alarm two hours early. planned out what I was going to wear in my head, I had my bag sorted out the night before. But it wasn't quite enough.
On a good day, I can wake up an hour before rehearsal and make it on time - sometimes, with 5-10 minutes to spare. Not on a bad day, though. Never on a bad day.
When I wake up, it takes at least 30 mins for my body to realise that it can move. The energy it takes to detangle my painfully incompetent legs from my blanket burrito is so overwhelming that I end up sitting on the side of bed contemplating the Panadol VS. Nurofen conundrum that I face on mornings like these. Sigh. Nurofen it is.
I look in the mirror and see that my hair's lookin' kinda gross. Do I have the time to wash it? No. Do I have the energy? No. And somehow, I've entered this bizarre time warp and it seems I've spent twenty minutes just sitting, willing my legs to spring into action. They don't.
So I do some mental cheerleading. There are a million Maddies in my head yelling at me to just put one foot in front of the other. I can do it. I have to.
I have forty-five minutes until rehearsal. It takes 15-20 minutes to get there.
So I need to get ready in 25 minutes at most.
I can do it.
I can do it.
I have to do it.
I forego a hairwash in favour of the (incredible) dry shampoo and haphazardly throw a braid together. No time for makeup, but... that pimple. Maaaaate. I dab some concealer on it just so I can feel better about myself. There. That'll do it.
I check the time. Shit. How the hell did that take ten whole minutes?
I get my dress on, fix it up in the mirror, zip it up. Right. Shoes. I'm meant to wear my converse, so I pull the right one on and I'm tying the shoelaces when - yep. Cool. Hand cramp. FUN. Okay. No time for this - I'll just kick the shoe off, chuck 'em in my bag. I opt for thongs instead.
It's winter, and it's freezing. But. Whatever. Gotta get going.
I gather my things, throw some food in my bag, and start making my way to the car when I wonder why it's taking so long. I look down. Each step is smaller than it should be. So I push on.
Urging my legs to move faster and stronger, my inner dialogue is a mess of voices. Angry, frustrated, anxious, tired voices that just want to make it to Point A and entertain the thought of Point B before the day is over.
They can yell all they want. My legs aren't gonna move any faster.
My mind suddenly remembers all those memes on Facebook about slow walkers and I feel the resentment hit me in the chest and shoot down my spine. This society and its limits and expectations just wasn't built for me. My mind has been shaped to fit these demands but my body just isn't of this world at all.
I make it to the car. Bag on the passenger seat. Sunglasses on. Seat belt clicked. I look at the time.
And now, I'm running late.
I didn't even get ready properly, and I'm running late.
I text the directors to let them know. They say it's okay.
It's not.
You'd think driving would be an arduous task for these incompetent limbs of mine, but it's actually a sweet relief. I drive. I make my way to rehearsal, and I pull into the car park. Disabled sticker thrown on the dash, I take a quick look in the mirror and realise I've been crying the whole way.
Not out of pain, but frustration.
Nurofen only does so much.
Today, I was late. Again. And I resent myself for it.
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