All of Me's

There are, as we all know, many different me's around. I don't mean this in a sci-fi horrible-cloning-accident kind of way -- that would be cataclysmic. Think about all that anxiety unleashed on the world! Anyway, I mean that there are different versions of me and they have to find a way to get along and work together. Like evening me is responsible for setting out the clothes that it has curated as tomorrow's outfit. Evening me is clearly awake and aware and ready to make decisions in a well-lit room. Morning me is initially barely aware so he relies on evening me's choices and slogs through the morning routine without straining a brain cell. Thank you, evening me, morning me says.

The problem is that morning me wants to return the favor. So at 6AM, inspired by a spirit of lovingkindness, morning me announces "I am taking a big hunk of frozen meat because I'm sure that in 17 hours, I'm going to want to make a complex and complicated recipe! I'll be so happy with myself when I seat down this evening and eat that meat!"

So off to work I go, envisioning tucking into a roast this or a braised that or a sauteed little number or who knows what. But then reality begins to eat away at my sense of well-eating. The day takes its tolls and I don't have EZ Pass. I drag myself home trying to figure out the exact order of operations that will have me in bed with a half-chewed peanut butter sandwich in my mouth. I don't even care who chewed it. I open the door, let my pants slip through my fingers and my keys end up in the toilet. A lot of stuff was going on and I was really, really tired. Bottom line is that tired, depressed and peptic evening me finds himself face to face with a puddle of water and a hunka-hunka-burning, Love, Morning Me.

Damn you morning me, with your irritating faith in me and your incessant appeal to my gut when you know that by that time of the evening I'm too tired to chew soup. Why did you have to commit me to this? I can't refreeze the meat and that cost a month's celery (I really make the green). Now I gotta do my best "zombie cooking" imitation and it is the "cooking" part that will be the imitation. Did I mention that morning me forgot to check on things like ingredients. Thanks, morning me. Let's invent a recipe while sleep walking or why don't I just throw all that expensive meat in the garbage now?

I really have to figure out what inspires morning me, kill it and get back to peanut butter sandwiches.