Morning Glory

My sweetheart is, in most everything, an absolute peach. I really don’t know what I would ever do without him. But there is one area in which he displays an unabashed flare for the passive-aggressive: Morning. On those occasions when his schedule has him rising before me, I would like to enjoy the leisurely, smug sprawl of someone who knows that there is plenty of time before the snooze button will require attention. But this is not to be.

It begins with his first waking breaths. The alarm goes off on his side of the bed, and his snoring stops… but the alarm keeps going. He lies still, breathing quietly, seemingly oblivious to the klaxon repeating over and over, forcing me in a sleepy OCD stupor to count the beeps. I reach over him and tell him that I have silenced the alarm, and the ruse of him being asleep is broken as he gets out of bed, asking, “Are you getting up?” After an unnecessarily protracted conversation in which I am obliged to detail my reasons for continued sleep, he makes his way to the bathroom for his morning ablutions.

His morning bathroom routine is punctuated by him blowing his nose in a manner that is reminiscent of a fifth-grader learning to play french horn, as well as various throat clearings and coughing. I am also required during this time to turn off the second alarm he has set and not disabled before leaving the bed. When he emerges, the door to the bathroom remains open, the lights within blazing and spotlighting me with their incandescent glory. Before anything else can happen, the wet towel hits the bed… and me.

Then begins the search for clothing, all of which seems to reside in the squeakiest cupboards and the stickiest drawers which require slamming to close. As each piece of his ensemble is selected it is thrown on the bed as well, adding to the collection of sheets, comforters, and the wet, dirty towel under which I am now struggling to remain asleep. Shoes are not left out of this routine, and hit me with twin thumps, at which point I usually groan and roll over.

Undeterred by my moaning, he begins to dress. Sitting on the bed he puts each piece of clothing on, jiggling the mattress in a way that is so violent that I would not be surprised to find him doing Zumba on his side of the bed if I were to acquiesce and open my eyes.

If I persist in “sleeping” (there really must be quotes around that word at this point), he then asks again if I’m going to get up. If the answer is, “No,” or, “GRR-HMMMPH,” he exits the bedroom, leaving the door open and goes to the family room, where he turns on the “Today” show at a volume that would be plainly audible to anyone sitting in our driveway… in a car… a poorly tuned 1970’s Camaro… with the windows rolled up.

Finally, he wakes the children, opening their doors and shouting, “TIME TO GET UP! AND TRY TO BE QUIET! YOUR MOTHER’S STILL SLEEPING!”

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