And The Point Is... by Anne Porter

When the shampoo bottle clocks me in the head while I'm taking a shower, I know it's going to an awful day.

This omen does not occur every day, and I am grateful for that, but every morning this has happened, the outcome has not been memorable.

Today, not only did my hair care product attempt to murder me, but before that I woke up extremely late. I did not have to actually leave the house for about two hours, but I was planning on writing this column (which I hope still remains appealing) and writing a movie review.

Fortunately, I did wake up in time to complete my poetry homework. Instead of a lack of time, however, no creative juices stirred anywhere in body from my toenails to my scalp.

This El Nino in my brain activity then caused me to be late, because trying to force a poem out the psyche is similar to trying to have a baby without the dilations of labor.

Then the clothes pile joined in the conspiracy to ruin my day. Last night, I planned what I would wear to prevent this kind of frustrating experience. I don't expect men to able to relate to this time-saving measure, but women will at least understand me.

The problem occurred when my shirt appeared to have been used as a football while I slept. I then proceeded to iron the shirt with my meager housekeeping skills and stained it with that brown Martian soil that is found on the bottom of pressers.

So this whole morning already made me late.

Not that I arrive on time anywhere I go, but I still try to be less than 15 minutes late. As my poetry professor can tell you, I do not always accomplish this goal, much to his annoyance.

In fact, on my poetry portfolio last year he remarked my grade "was fortunate due to attendance." My only defense was I always arrived; I just was always late. All I have to say is at least I am consistent.

And consistency is what I strive for. I can never arrive on time. I love the allure of alcohol too much. I procrastinate too much, but I will never let anyone who knows me down because that is what they should expect.

In fact, I am so determined to be equal in my actions that I was born three days late, I can drink a bottle of wine in about an hour, and I can wait until the morning assignments are to due to complete them. Gracefully at that.

All of this, of course, not on mornings like this. Perhaps I should change . . . maybe arrive punctually, follow the rules of moderation, and work ahead.

If I did that though, where would the fun, the excitement, the spontaneity be in my life. Nowhere.

This self-awareness leaves me a clarity that helps me to understand that there will be shampoo-assaulting days, and they are a common-place trend in most peoples lives. I just whine about them more.