Every night I set the alarm on my phone. I prefer to wake up to the dull clap-clap-clap of my cell phone than to a radio station that will inevitably be playing something horrible that I will never forget all day long. Or worse, what my boys wake to each morning which they jokingly call “that hit song, EHN, EHN, EHN, EHN…” I set the alarm for the last minute at which I really should get up in order for the morning to go really smoothly for everyone. And when it goes off, I take the phone from the shelf, hit snooze, pull the phone under the covers, and hug it to me, dozing five or ten more minutes before I actually get up.
Why do I do this? I mean, granted, my bed never ever feels so good as it does first thing in the morning when I should be getting out of it. It’s not a pillow-top. I don’t have a down comforter. And our sheets are so not Egyptian cotton. Or less than ten years old. But at 6:45 a.m. that bed feels like heaven itself. And in those moments, I can’t see any reason to get out of bed at all. Ever again. “I don’t really like my life that much anyway,” I think. In fact, I hate daylight. Who let that in? And showers were invented by the devil. I don’t want one. And it won’t make me feel better. I hate all my clothes, so I won’t find anything to wear. Why do we have jobs and school SO MUCH of our lives? Life is too short to get out of this bed right now when I don’t want to at all.
Honestly, I have no idea how I push past those minutes every morning. But I do. And about two minutes after the shower, I’m pretty cool with life.
They’re the saddest, most first-world, most ridiculous minutes of my day, those seconds post alarm but pre-shower. What about you? How long does it take you to accept the day?