What kind of morning is it? It's the kind of summer morning that starts out deceptively cool. A moment too long getting dressed, and I end up running for the train, clutching papers and bags, hoping not to lose a shoe. Stumbling onto the platform, nauseous and out of breath, I take a look at my watch, then at the train schedule. I'm 10 minutes early. I'm sweating in the most attractive manner, and the sun persists in its heavy-handed application of heat to my forehead. I send a quick text to my husband, thanking him for his morning meeting, and for his resulting inability to drive me to the train. I don't recall whether it was polite.
On my morning coffee run, which is not a daily occurrence but a necessary one today, I stop at the pharmacy. Return teething pills, pick up Pedialyte. Until now, Pedialyte was the liquid that my friend gives her Yorkie after the beach. My sleepless night with a feverish infant, and Google, taught me otherwise. As I reach for my wallet, my arm brushes against the dry cleaning instructions attached to the seam of my shirt. Most wear that tag on the other side.