Do you ever have one of those days when you feel the entire universe is conspiring against you? Well, I do. And Tuesday was one of them.

It started out like any other – with me hitting snooze far too many times and then shooting out of bed in a panic when I realized how late it was.

I had gone to bed with every intention of getting an early start. It’s Progress, after all. A time of year when all Evening Sun reporters start exhibiting signs of undue stress and fatigue from the pressure of our looming deadline. Sure that date is still more than a week away, but panic levels have already started to rise. The eyes are a dead giveaway. And, no, I don’t mean the twitch. I’m referring to that hollow, haunted look brought on by sleepless nights, caffeine overdose and copious quantities of self doubt.

So, yes, I went to bed early on Monday night, taking care to set not one, but two alarms. But, alas, it was all for naught. Because I forfeited the precious time I could have gained for the empty promise of a few more moments in the land of nod. That’s right, I fell prey to that evil tempter, the snooze button.

All was not lost, I reminded myself, as I trundled myself off to the shower. I had yet to pull my trump card. You see, I’d actually had the foresight to iron my clothes the night before. Not having to make any important wardrobe decision – or do any ironing – was sure to save an extra 15 minutes or more. Oh yeah.

I was still gloating about that fact 20 minutes later when, having completed my morning ablutions, I moved to the “caffeinating” portion of my routine. Only to be foiled again, this time by the Hot Shot, the antiquated kitchen appliance on which I rely to heat the water for my morning tea. Yes, I’d already purchased a replacement for the aging appliance. In fact, I did so a year ago. But seriously, it waited until that precise moment to breathe its last tired little breath. And yes, 48 hours later, I’m still bitter.

I did get my morning tea, and managed to get dressed without further incident. Until it came to that critical moment when I reached for my shoes. Much to my despair, the pair of brown leather dress shoes with the two-inch heels which were the perfect compliment to my chosen outfit weren’t in my closet. Nor were they in the “mud” room or any of the other places they could conceivably be.

After an increasingly frantic and entirely futile search which once again set back my morning timetable, I gritted my teeth and did the unthinkable.

I asked my mother.

Even as I queried her on the whereabouts of the aforementioned pair of shoes, I knew it was a decision I might live to regret. Her morning routine is, after all, considered sacrosanct, and any interruption could lead to the loss of life or limb. (Now you know where I get it from.)

“Did you check in the back bedroom?” she asked, and none too nicely, I might add.