You’ve missed your sleep window. Which only leads to frenzied late night projects, the hum of infomercials or worse – a personal helping of deviled eggs.
I frequently miss my hang up window, the stunted period of time when one is motivated to put clothes on hangers.
My husband looks at my clothes piled on the floor, hands on his hips.
“I missed my window,” I say.
“I bet I won’t miss it tomorrow,” I say.
One night, long ago, I missed my hang up window. I threw my pants on the floor, woke up the next day, put the same pants back on, and went to work.
My leg itched. So I scratched it. It kept itching. So I kept scratching. After a while, I looked down at my pant leg. A strange green gunk seeped through the fabric.
I ran to the bathroom, only to find a squished three-inch long centipede between my pant leg and my blotchy quad. Apparently, he missed his escape window.
Aghast and wanting nothing more than to remove the gut-garnished garment, I marched back to my boss.
“I have a medical emergency, and I must go home at once,” I said. “I must change my pants!”
For some reason, she just nodded. No questions. I didn’t even have to explain that I had missed my hang up window.
In have decided that I must contrive a hang up window to save my husband from severe facial expressions that cause him wrinkles and foil the wicked plans of bloodthirsty centipedes. Podcasts! I will find myself listening, needing something to do with my hands, and viola! A 45-minute hang up window! I might even be motivated to scare up a delicious batch of deviled eggs.