Thursday, September 22, 2011
It always starts with the best of intentions. I will wake up an hour early and get a good workout in. I will shower and even wash my hair, giving myself a salon worthy blowout. Weather permitting, I will don the well meaning outfit I’ve been intending to wear to appear more chic and professional instead of acting as if casual Friday rules now apply to Tuesday through Thursday as well. Not to be confused with my ‘I’m still hungover from the weekend’ Monday outfits. I will even prepare a healthy lunch from the leftover chicken breast and grilled veggie dinner. The Potbellies lunches have done a number on both my checking account and my waistline. So today will be the day. When that alarm goes off, I will just get up.
Nine minutes. They seem like such a good idea at the time. Logically, there’s no way to get a decent nine minutes of sleep, let alone six nine minute naps in a row. Why I don’t just reset my alarm for an hour later, or get up for the time I set it for originally, I cannot seem to figure out. What I have figured out is that the number of times my weak wrist reaches over to hit the snooze alarm is usually directly proportionate to how crappy I’m going to look that day. I’m addicted to my snooze alarm. Like a boyfriend who says “I refuse to watch anymore housewife shows” yet instinctively turns the channel to Bravo, my arm takes on a life on it’s own and all sense of reason flies out the door.
It’s a sick game I play with myself. The first three times I hit snooze, my workout goes from 30 minutes of cardio with some light weights to a set of crunches on my floor as I brush my teeth. In the next two hits, I convince myself that I can go one more day without washing my hair. The greasy look is in. And who needs to shower when Bath and Body Works makes a freesia scent so strong my grandmother in Phoenix can smell me, which is impressive considering she’s dead. My bag lunch gets the sack and the professional outfit I planned on wearing? Maybe I’ll just wait until I’m a professional.
Perhaps the worst thing about my 54 minutes of interrupted sleep is that the whole time, not only am I unable to truly fall back asleep – I usually have to go to the bathroom. So now we have two issues happening, both of which I’m trying to ignore; neither one about to go away. The title of my autobiography should be “That’s Me. Just Delaying the Inevitable”. Maybe tomorrow I’ll set my alarm an hour early to work on my first chapter.