Definitely that shirt, I decided. Yes, definitely that one. Maybe.

I tossed it and a few other candidates into the washing machine. I still had lots of time before I had to leave.

The pants had been easier. My gender only has two choices, and today’s choice was denim. My wardrobe is about as colourful as pre-tornado Dorothy, so selecting among trouser candidates had been a snap.

Aside from the easy pants picking, the morning wasn’t going well. I was in full-on klutzy nerd mode. I tripped over the rug. I stubbed my toe on a chair. I dropped a glass, but it didn’t break. I picked it up, fumbled it, and down again the tumbler tumbled, this time exploding against the hard kitchen tile. 

Before that, there was a soap incident. 

I was in the shower when the empty soap dish reminded me of something. The something was the fact that I’d forgotten to buy soap. No soap in the shower, no soap in the cupboard. That just left the hand soap by the sink. The flowery hand soap in a pump.

The foaming flowery hand soap in a pump. 

And that explains why a hint of lilac wafted behind me as I rushed about and painfully failed to avoid chairs kickable, rugs trippable, and the dangerous dusting of glass on the kitchen floor.

I did not want a lilac waft. I did not want shattered glass under my feet. But above all, I did not want to glance at Mr. Clock and find out it was NINE forty-five instead of EIGHT forty-five. 

Ha ha ha too bad for you, said Mr. Clock. That’s what you get for looking at me when you are all sleepy and yawning. Maybe next time you will pay attention to what Mr. Clock has to say. Ha ha ha Mr. Clock laughs at you and speaks of himself in the third person jauntily.

Mr. Clock was still laughing his little analog ass off as I took the stairs a million at a time down to the laundry room to clank open the washer and yank out my still soaking shirt.

I twisted the shirt to wring a waterfall into the washing machine. The shirt was still damp, and now wrinkled as well. Damn and double damn.

I raced back up the stairs and set up the ironing board as if I was trying to impress a NASCAR pit crew. I plugged in the iron. Get hot get hot get hot get hot you bastard. Mr. Clock said tick tick tick ha ha ha look how fast Mr. Clock is weeee!

I pressed the shirt with rapid strokes and impatient swirls. The steam hissed up around me, a great cloud of warm vapour. It really brought out the lilac.

Dry enough gotta go gotta go gotta go. I shimmied into the shirt on the run and leapt back down the stairs again with an audible KRACK at the landing which was me breaking an ankle.

Wait, no, I could still run, must’ve been the sound barrier.

Out the door and away, a sweet lilac breeze trailing behind me like a gossamer cape. If every traffic light co-operated I might just make it on time for brunch, where I’d try to stay calm, stay cool, and, most importantly, stay downwind.