The Time Between the Nines

I hate waking up in the morning.

No really. I despise rolling out of a warm bed and feeling my feet on cold floors. I hate that groggy, I wish I were still dreaming, is it morning already feeling. And I love, love, love sleep.

I am a sleep champion. I can sleep through thunderstorms that wake the dead. When I'm tired I fall asleep in less than a minute. Twelve hours to sleep? Make it fourteen. I'm up to it. If sleeping was an Olympic sport and having narcolepsy was considered 'doping' I would be a gold medalist.

Once I'm awake and have officially rejoined the land of the living, I love life. Most people consider me to be pleasant and happy. I consider myself an out-going optimist.

But poor Benjamin, who sees the moments in between and valiantly tries to help me in my daily transformations from hibernating bear to something approaching a civilized homo sapien.

I cringe at the harsh sound that zips out of my alarm clock. I have a faster draw on the snooze button than a Old West bank robber on his holstered gun. My motor memory for the location of this precious button is so precise that I can hit snooze without actually waking up. Sometimes I open my eyes and realize my alarm has gone off three times already before my brain registers beyond it's hand-to-button reflex arc.

Which also explains why I often eat cereal in the car on the way to work.

My alarm clock buzzes every nine minutes after you hit snooze and it's that loud tortured parakeet bellow (because I literally will not wake up to the radio). And so when I work day shifts it goes off at 6:00 then 6:09, 6:18, 6:27, 6:36, and 6:45. This is where I get concerned because I have to leave for work by 7. Now being a relatively low maintenance gal and wearing essentially the same outfit in varying colours to work and lately being limited to a certain number of scrubs because of my growing diameter, getting myself dressed and ready is thankfully easy. Making lunch and eating breakfast in time presents a real challenge and I usually commission my husband extraordinaire to help.

And the stupidest part is that I still wake up at six, I'm not really "sleeping" an extra 45 minutes, as I like to tell myself. I am in some sort of hybrid state, floating in between my dream world and reality. I wish I could be one of those get up and go type of people. And believe me, I've tried. But I'm not. And I've just accepted that however futile, I crave that extra teeny bit of semi-dreamy bliss between the nines.

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1 comment:

BJW said...

Woah! You are a GOOD writer.

Of course, I already knew that. Loved this Amy. And can vouch that you are the sweetest person in the world, not counting the hour before and after you hit the pillow.

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