Turn Back The Clock

Back when I lived in Wisconsin I used to be a morning person. On any given Saturday I would be up at about 7:00 a.m. Sometimes I would get my grocery shopping done, which would be a breeze because the aisles would be clear and the checkout lines non-existent. Sometimes I would walk the streets, enjoying the calm stillness that the world offers before everybody else gets up and ruins it by scurrying about randomly like caffeine-buzzed ants, engaging solely in the activity of making major annoyances out of themselves. Sometimes I would break out my trusty camera and try to find some spot where mankind hadn’t yet invaded, where I could simply enjoy nature and perhaps try to accurately capture a slice or two of it within the confines of a picture.

The point is that it was always peaceful, and it was the one time of the day when it didn’t seem like the world was leaving me behind and I had to rush like crazy just so I could keep up. I liked it. It seemed like a sign of maturity. It was my time to calmly reflect on all that was going on and create a game-plan for tackling what life was going to throw at me next.

Flash forward to now. The Twin Cities.

It is 11:30 a.m. I am still lying in bed. I have just awoken. I hear the birds chirping outside. I also heard the birds chirping when I went to bed, not that many hours before. To say I am disheveled would be a compliment, and also entirely inaccurate. I would be ecstatic to be merely disheveled. Instead, however, I am, to put it in technical terms, disheveled to the eighth or ninth power. This is quite impressive when you realize I’ve managed to get myself into this state without the help of any external devices besides staying up way to late.

I know I should get up and try to salvage the day, but my body is already doing it’s best to punish me for what I put it through by not allowing my any control over my appendages. I flop about like a fish for a while, although in a much less elegant manner, before I give up. I manage to creak my neck just enough to look at the clock. Looks like I won’t be making it up in before noon this Saturday, either.

There goes maturity. There goes the calm reflections and game-planning.

It is now noon-thirty. I am stumbling about, slowly regaining functionality. My mouth tastes like an ashtray, which is weird because I don’t smoke, but since it seems like a good simile I just can't pass up the opportunity to use it. I am unshaven, and my breath could fell a mature zebra at 10 yards. Within an hour I remember where the bathroom is, which is the big breakthrough I have been looking for.

By three I feel almost human. I’m showered and shaven. I am dressed, although I’m not quite sure if my shirt is on backwards or not. Still, it’s progress.

By five I’m back to my old self. I get my grocery shopping done, although I now have to deal with crowded aisles and checkout lines that wrap around the store several times. I try to exercise a little. I pay a few bills and run through a small portion of my to-do list. Now I’m getting momentum! However, just when it feels like I’m about to make some major headway, I realize that it’s Saturday night, which means it’s time to put all of that aside and head out and do it all over again.

Take that maturity! Take that calm reflections and game-planning! Oh how the mighty have fallen!

But who am I kidding? It’s great. Who needs maturity? Who needs to plan? Heck, I’ve already proven I can do that, and I can still do it when I’m eighty and I don’t feel the need to be standing on the front steps of the St. Paul Capital Building at 3:00 a.m. I mean, if that’s not sound logic to live by, what is?

So that’s my plan, and there is a moral to be learned here. However, I can’t put my finger on it, since I’m a little sleep-deprived. So, see you can figure it out by yourself. Also, please don’t call me before noon on Saturday morning. I won’t answer.