My Very Own Groundhog Day

6:15. Obnoxious beeping sounds replaces the previous silence in my bedroom, my sanctuary. Groaning, I try to convince myself to get out of bed. But a voice in my head rationalizes, you really do not need all that time, so I snuggle deeply into the warm covers. 6:40. I pull my phone closer to my face to double-check the time. With my blind-as-a-bat eyesight, I end up with the phone an inch away from my face. I finally accept that I do need to get up for real this time. I fumble in the dark for my glasses and minutes later emerge from my room into the blinding, bright hallway with lights that burn my eyes. I wince before mustering up the energy to yell five feet away to my brother’s room.

“GET UUUUUUUP!!!”

Once I hear a startled yelp from inside his room, I leave, satisfied, and continue with my morning rituals, which includes screaming up the stairs every five minutes to remind my brother that he needs to get ready. As the clock changes to 7:10, I yell up the stairs for him to come down because I am ready to leave. A groan like a slumbering bear awakened too early from hibernation comes from his room and I realize he still lies within the comforts of his bed. Resentment builds up within me, a volcano ready to explode and destroy all those in the area. Taking deep breaths, I calm myself, waiting for the sound of him thumping down the stairs. Instead, the sound of the shower starting drifts down from the second floor. Breathe in. Breathe out. If you killed him, everyone would know it was you, I remind myself. Finally, we tear out of the house at 7:28. By this time, I am in the middle of a full-blown anxiety attack. Of course, I get stuck right behind a little old man who drives at least ten mph under the speed limit. I dump out the contents of my lunch and breathe deeply into the brown paper bag to control my hyperventilating. You will never make it to school on time. Cars line up in front of the high school, stretching on for miles. Finally, the Red Sea parts and I glimpse the senior parking lot ahead. Sliding across the icy ground towards one of the last spots, I spin the car into the open space, hoping that with the snow-covered ground no one will really know if I park within the lines… or in an actual spot. Every day without fail the same routine happens, as though I am stuck in my own version of the movie Groundhog Day.