I woke up at 3:30 this morning. A few weeks ago my friend Joy told me she’d been waking at 3:30 since she returned from her Uganda trip in February. She told me she’d been getting up and practicing yoga instead of tossing and turning. I think she might have been smiling when she said this. Joy, if you are reading this, I was not smiling at 3:30 this morning. I did not get up. I did not practice yoga. Mostly I thought. And thought and thought. I thought about how annoyed I was to be awake. I thought about how bright the little lights on the DVD player, the air purifier, and the power strip are in the pitch black of early morning. I thought about the eight (EIGHT!) houses I looked at yesterday. I thought about how frustrated I am with the book I’m reading (The Jane Austen Book Club). I thought about “A Love Song For Bobby Long” and whether or not I should watch it for a third time or return it to Netflix. I thought about how heavy Chapin is and how impossible it is to move freely when his enourmous body has all of the covers pinned to one spot on the bed. You get the picture. At 5:30 I decided that at 5:38 I would turn on the Weather Channel, check the forecast, and get up at last. At 6:15 the piercing sound of my alarm woke me from my deepest sleep of the night, alerting me that it was, of course, time to wake up for real. It went downhill from there.
At 8:30 I made coffee in my classroom just like I do every morning, but this morning the coffee was so strong I think I saw it flexing and surveying the filing cabinet like it might try lifting it later. I was a twitching mass of nerves for the rest of the morning.
From 9:00 until 3:40 I worked on an assignment for my graduate class. My professor calls it an “integrated curriculum map.” I call it Satan’s idea of a sick joke. After six and a half straight hours of work I only finished 3/4 of the document. All things being equal, I should be able to complete it in two more hours, so maybe I’ll have time for, oh, I don’t know, eating and going to the bathroom tomorrow.
At 4:00 I left work and headed to
the tanning bed light therapy, where I decided to up my time to 7 minutes. That’s right, 7. I inherited many things from my Italian ancestors: a healthy ass, abundant facial hair, an appetite for bread and pasta. I did not inherit nice olive skin that tans easily. It shouldn’t come as a surprise, then, that the extra minute resulted in an irritating burn on every part of me that made surface contact with the bed, including my aforementioned healthy, uh, yeah, that.
By this time my four hours of sleep had definitely started to wear off.
At 5:15 I pulled into my driveway just as a steady rain started falling. A lovely, saturating rain, and me without a single one of my three umbrellas. Because it is genetically impossible for me to make more than one trip from the car to the house, I loaded up all my
shit really important bags, lurched to the mailbox to get the mail, and attempted to inch my way to the door without dropping anything. I was almost home free when I realized I’d left my phone in the car, but rather than dropping off the bags and the mail, I went back to the car with my hands still full and reached into the car for the phone. I opened the door and leaned in for the phone at the same moment, and the corner of the door hit me square in the middle of my forehead. All of the mail and my glasses hit the driveway, and now there is a cut with a tiny bruise around it RIGHT BETWEEN MY EYES.
It is now 7:30, and just moments ago I nearly blinded myself when the juice from the grapefruit I was eating shot straight past the spoon and into my eye. Normal, well-rested Me would take a cue from Joy and head to the yoga mat for some relaxation and decompression. Sleep-deprived, sunburned, brain dead, half blind, head injury Me believes that attempting to practice yoga at this moment might result in severe bodily harm.
I think I’ll give that sleep thing another try.