Waking Up Is Hard to Do

I need a new delivery system for my morning dose of caffeine; perhaps an intravenous drip or nasal spray. Either way, getting up in the mornings has been torturous this week. I’m back to setting my alarm for six again, under the theory that less is more. If I get less sleep, I’ll have more time to do things.

Actually, that’s a bit misleading. Apparently thirty-four is the age at which my body has decided to turn me into a senior citizen. Not only are my various bits and pieces going out of warranty–bad back, bad knees, bad ankles, smoker’s cough, delicate eyes which fear Mr. Sun–I also find it difficult to stay awake much past ten at night and would gladly spend the early afternoon taking a nap. All I need now is to buy a pair of short pants with suspenders to match and cultivate a deep love for shuffleboard.

Anyway, using my fingers, I determined long ago that by going to bed at ten and waking up at six, I get a perfect eight hours of sleep. It’s a pattern I’ve adopted before, and within forty-eight to seventy-two hours I’ve always managed to pass through all five stages of grief.

• Denial – “Ack! Make it stop! That can’t be the alarm already!”
• Anger – “Why the hell am I doing this to myself? It’s not fair! Other people get to sleep in!”
• Bargaining – “Maybe I’ll go to bed early tonight, squeeze another half hour in since I’m usually worthless in the evenings anyway.”
• Depression – “Why am I even bothering to wake up that early? What’s the point of being awake at all?”
• Acceptance – “Wow. I got all my work done and it’s not even time for lunch. I can totally read all day!!!”

For reasons beyond my understanding, I’ve woken up at six for the last four or five days in a row and still haven’t passed out of stage four. I feel wrecked, worthless and miserable. By the time the afternoon rolls around, it’s a struggle to keep my eyes open no matter how irresponsible I get with the coffee pot.

I’m going to keep to my self-imposed schedule for another day or two, in the spirit of never giving up, but serious doubts have crept into me. I’m such a zombie throughout most of the day that I can’t help but think that letting myself sleep in would give me more hours of useful time. Then again, maybe I’ll just go out for a few walks despite the weather, on the theory that more exercise leads to better quality sleep.

Hopefully I won’t stagger into the path of an oncoming car.