Right at this moment is when my nightly morning ritual begins. I know, makes no sense. Bear with me.
It starts with finally being able to settle down after drinks with friends, dinner made, and dishes washed. This is when I start promising myself that it's time for me to make a change in my life and go to bed EARLY. Early meaning 12:00-12:30AM, as opposed to my regular scheduled hours of 2:00-3:00AM. Actually, the promises begin at midday, when I am nodding off at my desk, and nothing about disability management entices me to stare at that screen any longer. When my brain convinces me that the only thing that will keep me awake is to GO GET CANDY! Ugh. I curse the candy store across the street and the happy Willy Wonka man who runs it.
So the promises begin, like an adulterous lover whispering that this time things will be different, baby. I feel comforted knowing that I have a list of things that need to get done when I get home from work, and if I time them well, I can be in bed by eleven, sleeping by twelve. Except it NEVER happens. Never. And so the ritual begins:
Me: I am going to bed early tonight.
Dave: Oh yeah?
Me: No, I am serious. More serious than I have ever been. Don't try and stop me either.
Dave: Um, I won't.
Me: I mean it Dave.
Dave: OK
Me: SIIIGGHHH. For real now. This is really happening, so get used to it. Stop bringing me down!
And like a moth to a flame, I am enticed by the glowing lights and seedy alleys of the other side of midnight. And my super convincing argument becomes a little less believable each time I say it.
Only, it's the morning part of the ritual that is the worst for me. When the fun and drunken delirium that comes with sleep deprivation has worn off and I am left with a somnolent hangover that makes my head heavy. I set my alarm for 8:00AM, a full two hours before we have to be at work. And then I hit 'snooze' every fifteen minutes for the next hour. And then it's 9AM and I begin to panic. I shake Dave and tell him to wake up. He grumbles something intelligible and wipes the drool off his chin. And I say, "No for real Dave, we need to get up. We only have an HOOUUURR!" And then he cringes and dies a little inside.
This goes on for the next forty-five minutes, where I get more and more shrill about the fact that we have to be at work in HALF AN HOUR! OMG! FIFTEEN MINUTES! Seriously Dave, wake up!
Only, I am not waking up. In between freak outs and many shaking of the shoulder, I go right back to sleep because I am exhausted from staying up so late. It's like my waking up ritual is bipolar. Poor Dave ignores it because he knows I am not even meaning it, that I am just acting concerned about being late for work because it makes me feel better. It's almost like I am secretly counting on him to stay in bed because then I can stay in bed and not feel guilty. And he knows it.
We are bad for each others' mornings. What can I say? And here we are again tonight, with me writing away at 12:18AM and Dave playing Mass Effect again so he can be excited for Mass Effect 2. We are doomed.
Why haven't I been fired yet, you ask? I ask myself the same question every morning when I slink into the office and try to T-1000 my way to my desk in order to not be seen.
Tonight I am halfway through my ritual once again. Oh well, maybe one day I too can be made up of a mimetic poly-alloy, and I can just gurgle and gloop my way to work in no time.
Anyone else have trouble getting to work in the morning? Anyone else always late?
