Monday, January 21, 2013
If I'm not a night owl, and I'm no longer a morning person, what does that make me?
I'm not sure what to make of this, but, despite its auspicious beginnings, January has been a complete non-starter.
The snow was fun while it lasted. I feasted on it, gorged myself, threw myself at it like a shameless hussy and, as you might expect, I woke up one morning and it was gone. No note, nothing. I should have been more aloof.
Now January is more than two thirds gone and I can't remember a single thing that's happened.
What I do remember is more nights than not of feeling an irresistible urge to go to bed before nine o'clock simply as a result of waking fatigue. This isn't so strange, since I've never been a night person. But, what's strange is the way I, normally a morning person, have been waking each morning with the very real sense that my body has grown roots and those roots have delved deep into the center of the mattress and found purchase there.
The start of each and every day begins with a long and deliberate period of extrication before I can join the ranks of those who exist upright. Even after the roots have been severed, I sit up then lie back down at least three times before it sticks. Sometimes it only sticks long enough to use the toilet, then, before I realize what I'm doing, I'm pawing my way back under the blankets, making my way back to the makeshift womb where life is always warm, comfortable and muted. This is where my kids most often find me, curious as to why I'm not downstairs making their breakfast.
I'm not sure what this perceived exhaustion is all about. In January, it seems, simply being awake for 15 hours per day is more than enough upright, coherent time for me, a Hurculean feat worthy of a reward in the form of copious simple carbohydrates-- breads, cookies, Snyder Bavarian style hard pretzels and cheddar cheese, wine every night and, of course, chocolate. Last night on the way to ice hockey practice, I left K-Mart with six boxes of sneeze shield Kleenex and a cinema-sized box of chewy Sweet Tarts.
Hello. I'm 47.
Seeing as how it's well after nine right now and I've already dozed off twice while trying to compose this blog post, I can see that any meaningful fleshing out of this topic is not going to occur tonight. All I can say is, it's a good thing I didn't make any New Year's resolutions.
But if I were to make a resolution retroactively, one that would guarantee me a certain sense of having achieved success, I would resolve to hibernate, un-apologetically.