Me In the Morning, but Also Me Everyday.

I am a mosaic of everything I've ever met. 

I didn't write that I gleaned it from somewhere, maybe from my parents? but most likely it was from the internet. 

I wake up groggy one morning and stumble out of bed. It's March, and everything outside is covered in a faint dusting of yellow. I fucking hate pollen, but even that is a contributor to my existence. I take a seat at the end of my bed and throw my body back down, wallowing for a moment in my sheets. I kind of want to check my phone. Where is it? I find it somewhere towards the center of my bed; it has sunk down into the body-shaped hole that is a product of my unwillingness to flip my mattress. The bed and I are one at night when we spend 9 hours molding together, only for me to rip myself away come morning. 

With my hair fanning around my face, I hold my arm above my head. My phone rests on the small divot that has appeared on my pinky from years of doing this exact same thing—holding my phone. My screen has approximately 30 cracks in it, and the number is growing by the day; yet, I haven't quite decided if I care. Regardless, this shattered screen is the first glimpse I've gotten of myself today. I stare at my reflection for a second; it's a meaningless glance. I'm not really intending to look at my face, but in my quest to construct my morning puff into its normal appearance so my Face ID works for once, I do catch a glimpse of my eye crust and the leftover mascara on my lids from the night before. I get three attempts to look like myself before my phone tells me I have to enter my password by hand. I don’t know why this task annoys me so much.

After I manage to break through the barrier that is password protection, I see that I have two notifications waiting for me; the first is an email from my credit card company: “Kennedee, your scheduled autopay is coming up on May 7th. I mentally tell myself to make sure I have enough money in my account for this to go through. The second is a text from my dentist's office: “Hi Kennedee, this is Dr. Holiday's office. We are sending a message to let you know you are 4 months over your bi-yearly checkup. Call or message this number to schedule an appointment.” I make another mental note to schedule a dentist appointment before I am kicked off my parents' health insurance. I swipe through both.

Making the brave decision to begin getting ready for the day, I once more roll out of my bed. I have a total of five mirrors hanging in my 900-square-foot apartment. I pass by two of them on my way to my bathroom, where I encounter my reflection for the fourth time today. I stare blankly at the three new whiteheads that appeared around my mouth overnight and my unruly bangs that I cut slightly too short the night before with a pair of Kuhn Rikon kitchen shears. I turn my straightener on and let it heat up to 350. I know that this is most likely too high and that it will damage my hair, but I have a lot of faith in the heat protectant I doused my head in two days ago. The next few steps commence in a chaotic pattern. I am not sure why I started to fix my hair before I washed my face, but I did, so now I need to backtrack. I throw all of my hair up into a faded blue scrunchie and use a few clips to pin back my bangs. I turn the tap all the way on cold and cup my hands underneath the stream, allowing my palms to collect the oncoming water. I submerge the top half of my face, briefly waterboarding my eyes and nose, and then I drag my hands down towards my chin, ensuring that I have thoroughly gotten rid of the night's grime while chill bumps cover my entire body. After coming up for air, I once again encounter myself. It’s the same mirror that was there 12 seconds ago, so I don’t know why I’m momentarily confused as to what I’m looking at, seeing as it’s just me, yet slightly more red due to the introduction of really fucking cold water on my skin. 

I do this same thing every morning; it's become ritualistic. But also it's a moment to flex my autonomy. I decide when to get out of bed the same way I decide if I want to fix my hair or do my makeup first. My mornings are made up of me making one executive decision after another. Should I throw on some music? Sure, why the hell not? I press play on Punching in a Dream by The Naked and Famous because I want to pretend I'm in an episode of Girls today. 

Removing my hair from its confinement, I make use of the straightener that I have had since the 7th grade and diligently work to tame the butterfly cut I got a few weeks ago. I am never fully satisfied with my hair, but I usually give up once my arms get tired and I no longer feel as if I can hold them above my head. 

Meandering out of my bathroom, I make my way to my closet, where I know I need to face my demons and put on an outfit.

I’m not really sure what I want to wear today, but I have a brief thought that if I stand in the middle of my closet for a total of three minutes, something will begin to speak to me. It doesn’t. Changing tactics, I check the weather as if somehow knowing if it is hot or cold outside will help determine my outfit choice. Deep down I know it won’t; putting on clothing has always been an internal experience for me; the weather is an external one. But it makes me feel better to have these small reprieves from my mind—things that are rooted in reality, like picking out clothes based on the weather, so it doesn't feel so much like my self-worth is tied into what I am wearing. 

Like most days, I end up going with a pair of baggy jeans. Lately I have been obsessed with a dark grey pair that I bought on a trip to Nashville with my best friend. I pair this with my black SKIMS tank top and vintage Doc Martens boots. My outfit isn't saying anything interesting, but I feel like I am, and today it feels like that is what actually matters. I walk to my full-length mirror and examine myself as if I am some sort of art project that I need to look at under various lighting to ensure I truly look like what I think I look like. 

All of these seemingly meaningless things don't necessarily upset me; they just are. Maybe these are the things I'm made up of. I am a mosaic of my mornings and the three hours I spend getting dressed, but I am also a little bit of the unwillingness that is found in not wanting to go to the dentist. I see myself in the reflection of my five mirrors the same as I see myself in the pollen and the brand of kitchen shears I own. Are these individual factors not an actual part of my existence? Would it even be possible for me to experience my mornings without its contributors?

My morning is ending, and I honestly need to get on with my day, so I make my way downstairs, where I confront my reflection once again in the form of an 8-foot-tall mirror that hangs above my fireplace. Sometimes I like to look at myself in this; today I decided to just keep on moving. Rounding the corner into the kitchen, the fifth and final mirror sits above a bookcase; I pass by this one too. I make my way to the fridge, where I begin pulling out the ingredients to make a yogurt parfait; I eat this for breakfast almost every morning. I assemble my bowl, pour myself a cup of cold brew, and head to my small breakfast table. It has a chrome body with a glass top and two matching leather slingback chairs that are both cute and slightly nonfunctional. I set my bowl down on the tabletop and look down. The glass surface is reflective, and there is the vague image of myself staring back at me. Maybe this home and this day are all mirrors of myself, collecting my reflections to send out into the world. .