My Inner Comedienne woke me early this morning.
It was 4 a.m. to be exact, when I received a sharp elbow jab to the bladder. (She’s like that sometimes.) I grunted and bit back the muffled beginnings of a curse, but rolled out of bed and together we stumbled down my steep and narrow (not to mention dark!) staircase, which was something of a challenge for the clown in the big red shoes. After nearly treading on the sleeping cat on step #3, Inner Comedienne made a graceful leap to step #4 and the cat was spared. I, on the other hand, was left bumbling behind, bladder full, eyes half closed, and was not nearly as successful.
My cat may never forgive me.
Inner Comedienne turned and shushed me. “Why are you so clumsy?” she hissed.
“YOU try jumping over a cat with a full bladder!” I hissed back, praying we did not wake Hubby in our efforts to navigate the stairs.
“I already did,” she admitted smugly. It is just like her to brag about her bladder prowess as I am reaching my middle years and am somewhat less certain of my mastery over such things, storage capacity being roughly walnut-sized on a good day.
We made our way through the moonlit lounge and down the hallway to the loo, where Inner Comedienne perched on the side of the bathtub and kept me company, as she sometimes does, crossing her legs and swinging her giant foot while she contemplated me in the moonlight. “It’s this stupid diet you’re on,” she said. “You’re drinking too much water.”
I rolled my eyes. “Whatever,” I replied, this being the best I could do at 4 a.m. by way of a comeback.
“I don’t know why you bother,” she said, eyeing my figure critically through my nightgown. “You look fine to me.”
“My clothes are all too tight. I look ridiculous.”
“You don’t need to lose weight,” she said. “Just go up a size and pull your fat clothes out of the back of the closet like the rest of us!”
Says the clown in the baggy suit.
“I’d rather get up at 4 to wee, if it’s all the same to you,” I said as we washed our hands in the sink. “Inner Whitney and I have to sing for 150 people in a couple of weeks, and I’d rather not do it in a larger size.” Exactly why I had to justify myself to my Inner Comedienne, I shall never know.
She sniffed, popping off her squirty lapel pin and refilling it. (Of course, one never knows when one might need a squirt someone in the eye.) “Nobody cares what either of you look like,” she snapped peevishly. She is always a little jealous of Inner Whitney.
“Now, now,” I soothed, making my way to the kitchen for another drink of water. “Don’t be like that.”
“They don’t need to hear singing. They need a standup routine!”
I glanced over my shoulder to find that Inner Comedienne had pulled some wiffle balls out of her pocket and had begun quietly juggling in the darkened kitchen. Rolling my eyes, I downed my water and gagged slightly, as I always do when drinking water. This darned diet…
“They do NOT,” I said, “need a standup routine.”
“Sure they do,” replied Inner Comedienne, mounting her unicycle without dropping a single wiffle ball. She was nothing if not superbly dextrous. “People love to laugh,” she said. “That’s why we started our blog, remember?”
“And when, may I ask, is the last time you let me say anything?” She was riding a tidy figure-eight across the lino now, having switched out 2 of her wiffle balls for the coffeepot and my laptop. “I have been quiet since May, and here you are, trotting out Inner Whitney while I am left languishing in the dark.”
“Hey! BE CAREFUL WITH THAT!” I shouted, snatching my laptop out of rotation. I would hardly call unicycling across the kitchen whilst juggling “languishing.” But what do I know?
Inner Comedienne cycled to the light switch and flipped it on. Dismounting, she handed me the coffeepot, a knowing look lurking behind her garish clown makeup. “You’re probably going to need this,” she said with a smart wink. “I have the BEST idea for another post…”
It is 4:10 a.m. And here we are…
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