Rude Awakenings

Oh, how I loathe the rigidity of my train schedule. I can get up at 3am and still find a way to make myself late. It’s an inevitability, folks.

I send the entire house into a tizzy. I am the Tazmanian Devil. I am a freak tornado. I am Dagwood Bumstead kissing Blondie at full sprint out the door. If my mailman delivered at 7:16 am, he’d have envelopes gently cascading down on his unconscious, twitching body.

My morning crisis never sets the day right, my friends. The body isn’t ready for this kind of full on assult. My pulse rate is clocking in at “hummingbird.” An unspecified dose of adrenalyn just shot through my body causing my sweat glands to misfire—my shins are soaking, the rest of my body, bone dry. My bloodshot eyes are darting back and forth just like a meth junkie.

Is this healthy? Eyes aren’t meant to snap open. Bodies don’t just leap into action. Brains certainly don’t dive into problem solving.

Mornings should be a gentle introduction to the day. We need to work in a little time for aimless wandering, a yawn or two, and scratching areas that don’t necessarily itch.

Early birds do catch worms, but those are the drunk worms who passed out on the lawn the evening before.