6:44 a.m. on a Monday my mind is up and racing. I roll over into the warm body next to me listening to my head say “time to get up” as my face presses further into my boyfriend’s chest. I wish every day started with a beautiful elegant dancerly stretch but usually it’s me stepping on dirty laundry kicking in the leg on my Ikea desk that I never power drilled properly as I make my way to the bathroom. Today is not a dance day, unfortunately. Today I work at the restaurant for six and half hours.