Chocolate Stitchz

This morning, like every morning, was started in much the same way—I hit “snooze” three times before I finally gave into the voices of NPR coming through my radio, roll over, say good morning to my autistic dog before deciding in my head what to dig out of the pile of laundry huddled in the corner of my room and reluctantly I pull myself out of bed. Taking three steps to my door, I reach to turn the knob and…it won’t turn. I try again. Nothing. The lock won’t catch, the doorknob won’t turn and I am…locked in! Oh my God! I start to panic slightly—most of my thoughts centered on my full bladder and…well that’s about it. This is crazy! Who locks themselves in their own bedroom…alone? Anyway, I call the boyfriend who has an emergency key to my house, hoping he will hear the phone over his own radio blasting NPR. He answers, whew! “What?!” Exactly the response I was expecting. Then my man, the fixer, was in full affect—describing to me the makings of the doors innards and explaining how I should attempt to free myself. Well, that didn’t work entirely so the only other alternative was for him to come over and perform a not-so-graceful storybook rescue complete with door bashing and power tools. (Good morning neighbors, nice to meet you; oh, and happy holidays from the woman who’s locked herself in her own apartment.) In the meantime I got back to figuring out a more gentle approach to freeing myself. All I had at my disposal was a pair of scissors and wire hangers. Let the demolition begin! I hack and pry and shove all kinds of crap in between the door and the frame; breaking my scissors in two and mangling the coat hanger beyond recognition. I pull with everything I’ve got, both feet flat on the wall straddling the door. Tugging. Grunting. Panting. One hour later…there goes my bus! And then…FREEDOM. Welcome to Thursday, Kisha.