I woke up punching my headboard. It was at that point I knew it was going to be a good day.
My wife and three young daughters were already awake, downstairs. I heard them clinking around in the kitchen, readying for the day. The sun was free, pouring in through the composite Venetian horsebone blinds (from an original 16th century Venetian warhorse, whose bones we purchased on the deep web) onto our merino wool-backed, 22 karat goal-threaded Charlotte Thomas Bespoke bed sheets. My wife once told me there are people in this world who sleep atop less than 1,000 thread-count sheets. My incredulity stretched like my stomach after a Wagyu beef truffle-and-diamond burger from Serendipity 3 on East 60th. I still have trouble digesting both.
I flipped off the bed and strutted to our 1,500-square foot closet, my legs kicking out from the knee like a goose-stepping Nazi. My morning routine. I flung open the jewel-encrusted sliding doors, revealing smooth fabric hanging limp from identical rose gold hangars and stretching into the mists of time. I cleared the gathered sleep from the corners of my eyes to see the glory itself: 67 identical light blue adidas track jackets, paired with 67 identical light blue adidas track pants.
The way the white stripes lined up made me smash apart the sliding doors. Today was going to be a good day.