My phone booth

To say that I'm not a morning person would be like saying the cast of Mad Men is a hair overindulgent. I see the sunrise maybe once a year. Usually on Easter. I function at my peak with 9-10 hours of sleep, (not that that ever actually happens), and I am a textbook night owl. Though I am blessed enough to have a job that doesn't start until 10am, (and is only a 10 minute drive away at that), I still have to force myself out of bed when the alarm starts singing at 8:45. (Yeah yeah, I know. Pathetic. I know. Save your comments.) So very often, I'll set my alarm for the last possible second and proceed to primarily get ready for my day in my car. I'm kinda like Superman and my '96 Toyota Camry is my phone booth. Many weekdays, I enter my car as a mousy "Clark Kent:" with hair in a terribly unflattering bun, not a stitch of makeup, and often not even wearing shoes. Really. It's that bad. But you must understand, this is were the magic begins. During my 10-12 minute commute, (depending on - A. Traffic B. "Millers"* and C. Unnecessary Construction), makeup is artfully applied at red lights, a strategic shoe selection might be made (there is often more than one pair of shoes in my car at any given moment), and finally, as the piece de resistance, my incredibly long hair is shaken out of it's school-marm bun cheesy-teen-makeover-movie style, leaving me with a lusciously wavy mane. By the time I step into the parking lot in front of my office, the transformation is complete. Lowly Clark is now an unthinkably glamorous and put-together Superman, and I am ready for my day. (With as much sleep under my belt as possible.)

*Millers: the slang term I've coined to define the absolutely inordinate amount of jaywalking pedestrians that constantly crowd the streets of Columbia like post-apocolyptic cockroaches.