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The Morning Rush

by Alison G, MA, USA, Age 14

The Mad Hatter had it right. I am late, and I am not happy about it. There are few things in my day that bother me. Burned toast? No problem. Pen runs out during class? No sweat. Even fingernails on the chalkboard pale in comparison to the one thing that really, truly bothers me on any given school day – I just hate the feeling of being rushed and running late for the bus in the morning. Take this morning, for example.

I am jolted out of a sound sleep by the urgent blare of my alarm clock. I immediately personify the little silver clock, angry at it for seeming so insistently perky at 6:30 in the morning. As my eyes adjust to awakeness and turn to the clock, I’m shocked that it now reads 6:32. Where did those precious two minutes go? Fighting my instinct to roll over and fall back into the world of blissful slumber, my feet touch down on the cold wood floor. I feel as though I’m moving through water this morning. Perhaps my dad was right and I should have thought about how tired I’d feel in the morning when I was up so late reading my new book. I meander to the bathroom, though I clearly had no business meandering at all. The clock now reads 6:36. I can’t help but think how much better off I’d be now if only I had gotten up ten minutes earlier. I quickly wash my face and brush my teeth, then hurry to get dressed. The clock now reads 6:40, and I know, with some anxiety, that I should be further along in my morning routine than I am. Somehow my clothes come together in some sort of passable order, but the act of dressing comes with a consequence: it is now 7:00. Panic is starting to rise within me. I know I have to leave in ten minutes and I still have loads to do. If I had only gotten up ten minutes earlier. I hear the dreaded call from downstairs, reminding me – as if I need reminding -- that I need to “hurry it up honey.” It’s 7:02, giving me a mere eight minutes until departure, and my desk is still hopelessly cluttered with last night’s homework. Of course, as luck would have it on this particular day, I had homework in every subject, so each and every binder needs to be put back in my bag. Bag packed, panic rising to my throat now, I coax most of my unruly hair into a ponytail and put on a shmear of lip gloss. Finally, I am heading downstairs. It’s 7: 08.

Feeling rushed, but seeing some possibility of making the bus, I suddenly remember that today is a day with athletics. I turn around and run up the very staircase I just descended, skipping every other stair, and quickly grab the first athletic-looking article of clothing in reach. (It will be hours later that I realize that I mistakenly grabbed my five year old brother’s karate pants.) One last glimpse at the initially offending alarm clock tells me that it is 7: 10, the time we’re supposed to be heading to our car. I fly downstairs again, say my goodbyes for the day to anyone in my path, and run out the door, jacketless, much to the dismay of my mother. Literally. I am forced to go right back inside to get a jacket, wasting precious minutes of my time. I frantically rush back into the car at 7:18. My heart sinks, knowing that I will most likely not make my bus. Tensions in the front seat are high while, just to add to the drama, the fuel tank is low. I urge my mother to drive faster and faster along the icy roads. My aggravation intensifies as our timing requires us to stop at every red light along the route to the bus stop. If only I had woken up ten minutes earlier. I’m seeing red. It’s the tail lights of my bus, as it pulls away from the stop, three car lengths ahead of us. We race to the next bus stop, chasing the bus for the third time this week. As our car careens down the road, my anxiety is high, and I plead with the unknowing bus driver to wait for me. If only I had gotten up ten minutes earlier. Even if I make the bus, I’ll have to face the shame and ridicule that comes with getting on the bus late. When I am late, I feel as if my entire day is off somehow. As the bus comes to a stop at last, still well ahead of our car, I open my door and sprint for the open bus door. As I land with a thud in the only available seat on the already moving school bus, I make a mental note to set my alarm for a different time tomorrow: 6:20 it is.