Life of a Hustler (part 1)

I am always hustling. Counting minutes in my head, always watching my timepiece. I am a veritable slave to time. It is the only way that I know to exist.

Image result for busy mom on the go

(Nobody is usually smiling  like that though. There’s usually urging, yelling, snapping fingers, pleading and total forgetting of the usual family pleasantries, I’m late dammit.)it’s bad, I know.

During the week I wake up at 4 am. I strive to pray but it usually ends up with me telling God, “thanks for waking me up, we’ll talk more in the car.” I actually get off my bed around 4:30 or 5am depending on whether young Boyo is lying next to me under my armpit or how much prep I have to do to send people off with food. Then I have to make sure to leave home before 6:45 or else I’ll have to resort to driving like a maniac so I can screech in to work on time. So my morning routine is like a checklist going of in my head, of course subject to delays: car trouble, burnt breakfast, last-minute bathroom trips. Then I offload the gremlinz at my mother’s in the opposite direction. Sometimes she wants to do small talk which I don’t usually mind but other times: tick tock. Sometimes the gremlinz forget stuff at home which allows me to reconnect with God as I royally get pissed off. “This is a well-oiled machine that isn’t supposed to have any kinks! Get it together!!!” It is bad, again, I know.

I work one and a quarter hours away and the roads are really bad but punctuality cares nothing for distance. I make sure to get gas for my car the evening before because any delay could cause me to get stuck in traffic that I wouldn’t have been stuck in, had I left earlier. I have every single traffic light timed in my head and memorized. I have shortcuts mastered. I even try to anticipate how fast a driver looks like he will go so I will know not to get stuck behind him.  I know all the potholes in the aforementioned bad roads. I know the distance from A to B is 12 minutes, B to C is 3 minutes, C to D is 11 minutes, D to F is 7 minutes with complete exactness. Sad? Yup….

Don’t ever be a teacher who is late. You might as well be carving your own to cross to properly well plant into the ground in a place called Calvary. Not to mention, you are exposed for principal, colleagues, students, everybody to judge no matter your lame/valid excuse. I have 45 minutes late against my record for the year. I CANNOT afford to add to it to be supplied with letters and to suffer through warnings so I try my best. But then there are others who operate  like time in a non-muthaluvin factor. My husband is like that. No concept of time whatsoever and he cares nothing for it, whenever he reach, he reach which I think is a little selfish.

Image result for late, don't care

Sigh….Get there on time! The world does not revolve around you and your tardiness!

I could try to slow down but then the joke’s on me as everything then piles up like dishes in your sink. No one feels as obligated to get tasks done in my camp which would assist everyone. I tend to run out of constant reminders for the fam so I might as well get up do it myself. It will work until I drop down. One of these days I will activate the FUCKIT button though.  Bad? Definitely. Next up….weekends….

Bless up


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