toilets

Have you ever stared at a toilet?

Mornings are weird, and annoying, and a little gross. Your body shut down for several hours, your brain managed by the subconscious, have a hard time adjusting. It’s a strange arrangement. All the things about yourself that you manage and hide, all the masks you wear, all the scaffolding of day-to-day existence, lie scattered where you left them.

Some mornings are symphonies. You sleep in a little, wander downstairs, grab some coffee, maybe some o.j. As your brain comes online, you enter the conversation around you. Food sizzles on the stove, dogs wander in and out. The build, the melody, the pace of the new day is soft and smooth.

Some mornings are shotgun starts. An alarm fires off, jolting you with urgency. You wake up running late, with an hour’s travel ahead. You race your own torpidity to limit the damage, gathering supplies and dressing sloppily. All your anxiety slaps you into wakefulness.

I once stared at a toilet for five minutes straight.

Every emotion pierces more strongly in the morning. A flock of nervous flutters strive with hungry hammerings in your stomach. You are more fatigued than at bedtime, which would be funnier if you could keep your eyes open. Work sounds like a sentence, but you also have to smile all day.

The worst is when your mind gets right to work on the big problem. You’re stressed, mentally overloaded, and apprehensive about the end of your quest. Of course, you only get twenty minutes to yourself, because work is important, and they want you to smile.

Society asks you to master your neuroses, to hide your impulses, to manage your passions. Each one makes a human being unique. Each one is neglected or forsaken throughout the day. The morning strips away pretension for several precious minutes. They say everyone puts their pants on, one leg at a time. So, too, we put our masks on, one layer at a time.

The great thing about toilets is that you have time to think.