Here’s why it takes me so long to get ready in the morning.  Let’s assume that I need to leave at 7:30, and have decided to wake up at 6am.  The night before, I set an alarm for 5:40.  Watch what happens.

• 5:40 am—alarm goes off. I wake enough to snooze it, and begin to do some complicated mental math, debating what time I actually needed to wake up.  Calculations include how long it should take me to shower and dress, how long those tasks actually take, etc.  I eventually decide that 6:00 was the correct time, and begin scrolling my Twitter or Instagram feeds.
• 5:50—hit the snooze again, confident in all my life choices
• 6:00—turn alarm off, ready to start the day. Reply to one last comment, like a few more photos.  Check charge on kindle (I sleep with it) and phone; debate which is lower, which will charge faster, which will be needed sooner and charge accordingly.
• Strip out of whatever I slept in. Hunt around for clip to put up my hair.  Debate using scrunchie instead.  Hunt for scrunchie.  Find hair clip, pin up hair.  It is still, in my mind, 6:00.
• Use toilet. Consider whether all the lights in the bathroom need to be on for shower—bright lights make showering easier but harsh light is so painful when I’m not fully awake, and do I really want to wake up?  Yes, that is the point of this exercise—I have places to be, remember?  Got out of bed promptly at six for this shit.  Fine then, all lights on.  
• Turn on shower to warm water, debate flushing toilet again to speed this process. (Our water heater is new enough, but it apparently took one look around the basement and decided it was in an old house and could get away with these shenanigans first thing in the morning).  Debate while shower warms, then brush teeth.  Water is warm while tooth brushing occurs.  It is still—and I will swear on any book you choose—6:00am.
• Open shower door to vent steam. Yeah, had that turned up too high.  Turn it down a bit and hope I haven’t given the old pipes some sort of attack. 
• Pause before getting in to look in mirror and debate whether to wash hair (the dry shampoo is a few days old, but it’s mostly fine… it’ll look better if I put it up, though). Remember that I don’t wash my hair in the shower anymore (it’s only been five years, anyone could still forget) so the point is moot. 
• Step into perfect shower at precisely 6:00am.
• Compulsively check every nook and cranny for spiders (yes, I checked before getting in, but they’re sneaky bastards and you can’t spot the white ones until you’re right on top of them).
• Stare at wall for several minutes. I don’t know what’s going on with this time, my brain just… stops.
• Clean self, pausing frequently to rehearse (quietly, in my head) conversations that will never happen. No, I don’t mean like you do it—you’re accepting an Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress or some shit that could maybe happen.  I’m being interviewed by Jon Stewart, who comes out of retirement to have me on The Daily Show (I don’t even know why, I fucking love Trevor Noah, but it’s still Jon who interviews me.  Trevor’s there, and we hang out after and agree to collaborate on some cool projects.)  Or what if my friend invites her ex-husband’s lawyer to her wedding and seats him at my table at the reception?  That is my level of crazy, and if you’re not even playing at my level then there’s no way we’re on the same team.
• Realize that this shower has probably taken, like, 15 minutes already and I should go ahead and wash my face. Do that. 
• Shower complete, I towel off and apply deodorants and lotions. This goes quickly because now the bathroom is full of humidemies and I want out.  It is now approximately 6:15.
• Grab socks and underwear on the way to closet, check time while putting on socks. Clock claims that it is actually 6:42.  I have no idea what went wrong, but I now have 17 minutes to figure out what I’m going to wear, put it on, and do something with my hair because I still need to do makeup!
• Die a little inside
• Throw on random clothes
• Check time—7:04. What the actual fuck??
• Hair can be combed out later. Strip off top (makeup spills don’t come out) and rush across the hall for makeup.
• Half-listen to Husband’s comments about something that is not eyeliner-related. Fail to answer with appropriate enthusiasm, which he takes to mean “try harder to get my attention!”  Snap at him about being in a hurry.  Husband, who literally got out of bed while I was putting on my socks, counters with snark about how I need to start getting up earlier if I make us late again.
• Rush through makeup, muttering about how I can never find anything when I’m this flustered. It is now (according to an actual clock) 7:16.
• Husband fucks off to shower. I finish my makeup with enough time to go do something about my hair, but all of my combs are in the bathroom he’s currently fogging up.  Experience has taught me that opening the door causes him to howl in pain at the cold draft that touches his back, so I must wait.
• 7:28—Husband finally relinquishes bathroom, and I begin carefully detangling my delicate tresses. Combing through long hair (and if you have short or very sturdy hair you can fuck right off) is a process, people.
• 7:29—Husband is dressed, shoes are on. He huffs, glares at me, and announces that he’s going to wait in the car.  Fine, whatever.  Good riddance.  (Not really… I will catch more hell for the fact that he “had to wait in the car,” like that was somehow my fault) 
• 7:31—I put my top back on and race down the hall, tripping over a Brindle Dog who does not want me to leave and is willing to watch me fall down the stairs to my death in order to avoid staying home alone for two damned hours.
• 7:32—Both dogs insist that they haven’t been outside since sometime yesterday. They are adamant that this is not a ruse to get them out to the garage (where they hear the car running) and threaten to pee on the rug while I’m gone if I don’t let them out before I go.  I shrug and let them out, since I can’t find my shoes anyway.

Too real, watch.  Too real.

I have related the above because I know some of you believe you are on his side when I tell about his complaints that I made us late. 

But also, because this happened recently and dammit, I needed you to understand the 112-minute shitshow that came before.

ME:  Where are my shoes?  (makes full circuit of ground floor)
HIM:  (does fuck-all)
ME:  There they are!
HIM:  (paces, obviously impatient)
ME:  You were no help.
HIM:  I would have said something if I’d seen them on your feet.
ME:  Really?
HIM:  (quietly)  Maybe…
ME:  Really??

Some days, you have to celebrate the small victories.