sock monkey slippers.

Clickety-click, click, click, whimper. My dog prances on the left side of my bed; I don’t stir. He skirts under the bed, to the right side. Click, clickety-click, click, whimper. I touch my phone, to check the time. 6:50 a.m. A mumbled “I hate you, Brody,” and I tumble out of bed.

I stand on the porch while Brody wanders oh-so cheerfully around the yard. Dry contacts won’t respond to feverish blinking; they remain glued to my eyeballs. Finally, focus. The black button eyes of my sock monkey slippers stare up at me, as if to say, “Really, you’re wearing me outside?”

I look like someone’s crazy aunt on Christmas morning. A get-up destined for TLC’s What Not to Wear. Slippers. Green plaid flannel pajama pants. Red fleece robe, complete with a gingerbread house on the front pocket; gingerbread men and gumdrops line the hood (only $6.24! Justifiable?). Hair styled after Albert Einstein. I should really be embarrassed by this.

Eh. I’m up. I can revert to normalcy later.