There’s an art to waking up at the exact right moment. Some have the ability, with internal clocks so finely tuned they could provide the International Time Standard, to rouse themselves with EXACTLY enough time to shower, clean up, eat a wholesome breakfast, collect their necessary items for the day ahead, and be out the door in an effective yet leisurely fashion that involves zero frantic scrambling or forgoing of tooth brushing.
I’m not one of those individuals.
First off, I’m an athletic sleeper. I start out peacefully enough; generally an on-my-side type of guy (yes, ladies, I’m great for cuddling), but this never lasts. During the night I’ll take on no less than 15 different sleeping positions, often forgoing the common horizontal sleeping pattern for dangling myself half off the bed, jamming my legs into the bedposts, and abruptly flinging my pillow across the room. I don’t know what causes this, but I should probably stop drinking coffee so late at night.
So when my alarm clock goes off like an air raid siren in the morning—BLAWWWT, BLAWWWT, BLAWWWT—I spend the first bleary moments of consciousness attempting to untangle myself from my sheets and figure out what I’m doing underneath the mattress. This usually results in a violent explosion of bed things, in which I arise from a twisted bedframe and stumble about the room, grabbing clothes to throw on my body.
I’m not waking up in the morning feeling like P-Diddy by any means.
And no matter what time I set for my alarm, there’s always only 15 minutes left before class. I swear Time is pulling a vicious practical joke. Regardless, my morning consists of a dead sprint to the shower.
Showering is a wonderful experience at our apartment. Our water system is a failure. The toilet is constantly running, a steady gurgle that doesn’t go away regardless of how many times we wriggle the handle, beat it with a plunger, or stuff geology notes down the plumbing. As a result, the shower goes from freezing cold straight to boiling hot—there are no tolerable water temperatures to be had. I am driven wide-awake by having my skin alternately boiled and frozen, coupled by my manhood-questioning screams of pain.
By the end of this unavoidably short process, body tingling like I doused myself in a tub of Icy Hot, I towel off, wrench clothes on, do something with my hair, stab myself in the eye trying to put in contacts, blindly grab at any notebooks or papers I may need for the day ahead, pour some cornflakes in my hands and toss it in the general direction of my face, and make a mad rush for the door.
Let the day begin!