A Hilariously Mundane Day

2:00 AM — The Unfortunate Awakening

I woke up at 2:00 AM with the immediate, terrible certainty that something inside me had filed a formal complaint.

My stomach was twisting itself into shapes no organ should attempt. Food poisoning? Allergy? A personal betrayal by smoked ribs? Hard to say. All I knew was that my body had gone from “sleeping peacefully” to “emergency internal weather event” with no warning.

For a while, I just lay there in the dark, bargaining with whatever digestive gods were available at that hour.

5:15 AM — The Call of Shame

By 5:15, it was clear I was not making it into the office. Walking felt dramatic. Standing felt ambitious. Existing felt like a scheduling mistake.

I shuffled to my laptop, opened Microsoft Teams, and typed my boss the least heroic message of my career.

“Morning. I’m not feeling great. I think it might be food poisoning or a reaction to something I ate. Would it be okay if I worked from home today?”

Then I stared at the screen like Teams was a medical device.

A few minutes later, the reply came in.

“Feel better, Steve. Just take it easy.”

Relief hit me immediately. I had been granted permission to suffer in private.

6:00 AM — The Sick-Day Workday Begins

After a little more miserable half-sleep, I crawled back into the day looking less like a functioning adult and more like someone who had lost an argument with a haunted buffet.

I logged into work, fixed a couple of down nodes on autopilot, and tried to stay quiet in the digital background. That lasted until my overly enthusiastic coworker showed up in chat, somehow louder through text than most people are in person.

The man had the energy of a morning radio host and the productivity of a decorative paperweight. I still do not understand the science.

8:00 AM — Oriana Leaves for Work

Oriana, my wife and the only competent adult in the house at that moment, handed me a glass of water while I groaned about the smoked ribs.

“Maybe next time,” she said, “don’t eat like you’re challenging the ribs to a duel.”

Fair.

She got ready for work at Decor Carpet One Floor & Home in Bellevue, somehow looking composed while I sat there looking like a cautionary tale. Oriana is smart, sharp, funny, hardworking, and entirely too good at teasing me while also taking care of me.

I wished her a good day as she left, quietly jealous of her ability to eat dinner without turning it into a medical subplot.

10:00 AM — Dog Walking Adventures

Keno and Babs eventually decided that my suffering was unfortunate but irrelevant.

It was walk time.

Babs, mostly black with her little white beard, bounced around like a tiny old wizard who had gotten into espresso. Keno, my red chihuahua, carried himself with the grave authority of a retired general inspecting the troops.

Outside, the walk immediately became a neighborhood production.

Babs barked at squirrels, leaves, distant noises, and at least one enemy that existed only in her heart.

Keno stopped to sniff every patch of grass like he was gathering evidence for a case that would never go to trial.

Then they saw Fluffy.

Fluffy, the neighbor’s cat, sat in the window with the cold confidence of someone protected by glass and fully aware of it.

Both dogs lost their minds.

They strained at the leashes, front paws clawing at the air, back feet skittering along the sidewalk, absolutely convinced this was the battle history would remember. A neighbor walking his bulldog gave me a little nod of sympathy, the kind men give each other when no solution exists.

I nodded back while trying not to collapse into someone’s landscaping.

12:00 PM — Lunch and Laundry

Back home, I attempted eggs.

They were plain, soft, and deeply uninspiring, which was exactly what my stomach required. I ate them with the caution of someone defusing a bomb.

Around noon, Oriana texted.

“How are you feeling? Need anything?”

I looked at the laundry, the dogs, the sad plate, and my own general condition.

“Surviving. Thanks for checking in.”

That felt accurate enough.

Then I started laundry, because apparently even on a sick day, the hamper does not believe in mercy.

1:00 PM — Move Along, Nothing to See Here

At 1:00, nothing important happened.

Nothing meaningful. Nothing productive. Nothing anyone should record.

So naturally, this was when the day peaked.

Between laundry loads, I wandered into YouTube and found a mashup that began with “Bad Mama Jama” by Carl Carlton. I was already into it, doing the kind of sick-day dancing that involves mostly shoulders and poor judgment.

Then, without warning, the song slid into the Darkwing Duck theme.

It worked.

That was the disturbing part.

For a second, I just stood there, confused and impressed, like I had discovered forbidden knowledge. Then I resumed dancing, because when the universe hands you funk-to-cartoon-theme perfection, you do not question the gift.

3:00 PM — Accidental Nap

By midafternoon, I was answering email through sheer muscle memory. My eyes got heavy. My posture got worse. My brain quietly left the building.

I fell asleep at my keyboard.

The dream made no attempt to be useful. There were ninjas, clowns, trains, and smoked ribs, all mixed together in a way that suggested my subconscious had also eaten something questionable.

When I woke up, my screen was still open, my status had not betrayed me, and no one seemed to have noticed.

Working from home has flaws, but it does occasionally protect your dignity.

6:00 PM — Wrapping Up the Day

By evening, the workday was over and my stomach had downgraded from “active disaster” to “ongoing concern.”

I kept dinner light. Oriana and I watched a little TV, nothing memorable, just the kind of background noise that lets the day finally unclench.

She told me about a customer at Decor Carpet One Floor & Home who wanted carpet installed in their bathroom. Not a bath mat. Not a rug. Carpet.

In the bathroom.

Oriana explained how she gently guided them toward better choices, which is one of her talents: saving people from themselves without making them feel like they needed saving.

I laughed harder than my stomach appreciated.

Later, crawling into bed, I thought back over the day. The illness, the dogs, the laundry, the accidental nap, the forbidden “Bad Mama Jama” and Darkwing Duck mashup.

It was not an exciting day.

It was barely even a day with a plot.

But somehow, it still had structure, conflict, character development, and one deeply questionable musical revelation.

Life may be mundane, but it is rarely empty.