DATE: 1/22/2004 12:22:00 PM
Just Thought I'd Share
Revelation: I have freed myself of my snooze button habit. As Heather (college roommate) or my parents (current housemates, so to speak) can attest, I had developed quite a shocking case of snoozephilia, the kind where even setting the clock time late and the alarm two hours early fails to rouse me from bed on time, because my hand had become automatically attuned to reaching up and hitting that pesky little button without ever disturbing my nice, sound sleep. Just recently I went to bed ultra-late after doing battle with my perennial insomnia, stupidly thinking, "I can get up in three hours!" (Just goes to show you how necessary sleep is for cohesive living.)
The next time I opened my foolish eyes again, I didn't even have to look at the clock to know I'd overslept. Badly. I'm sure this has happened to you--you crack one eye open. Shit. There's too much light. You close your eye again. Re-open it. Definitely too much light, and at the wrong angle. Before you even make another move, you know you're fucked.
But I did have to look at my clock, though, to know how badly I was fucked; and in its cheery yellow square-ass numbers it told me faithfully: 9:55.
So after the day of panicked ass-kissing I had to go through to make up for how egregiously late I ended up being to work, I decided to take some action. Just to see what would happen, I set the alarm clock for 7:00 am, the absolute last possible time I can wake up and still hope to get to work on time. This in turn appeared to scare me so badly that one part of my subconscious began keeping an eye on the clock. Without the snooze button jarring me out of sleep every five minutes, to my utter shock, I've begun getting up between 6:30 and 7, plenty of time for a quick shower and getting out the door, quite comfortably, thank you very much. Even more bizarre to me is the fact that not only in the morning but all day, this has made me exponentially less tired and dragass.
Witness the other morning, when I pulled into Route 3 traffic behind one of those mini-pickups, with one of those redneck bed covers on it, burning oil, sputtering and puttering, its white paint caked with road salt and mud so thick that rivulets of rain and snow had left sharp squiggles like a kind of alien calligraphy, with nearly-flat tires and a rusting bumper. Not anything new. But on the back of this particular shitbox was the following bumper sticker:
It made me laugh out loud.
And if I can laugh out loud at 7:15 a.m. while stuck in traffic, I must be doing something right.