(Don’t) Wake Me Up Before You Go Go

The Next Family

By: Ann Brown

Well, I’ll say this much:
if you have to be awakened by the phone at 9AM on a summer vacation morning when you could have slept much later – and you really needed to sleep in because you stayed up until 3AM worrying that you will not be able to keep up with the one-and-a-half-mile in two-hours walking tour of the 60’s folk music scene of Greenwich Village and it’s really too late to get in shape when you fly out in three days, and also you just remembered that you never got that other molar crown taken care of and God knows if there are any decent dentists in New York in case your mouth all goes to hell while you are there, and then, of course, there is the constant late night worry about the birds in the Gulf and the baby orphaned elephants in Africa and if Ted Stevens is honestly, truly, finally, dead. I also worry that it’s too late to start watching “Mad Men”; I mean, am I just too behind the train with that? By the time I catch up, will everyone have moved on to a different show? And before you know it, your sleepless night has become a sleepless morning and just as you drift off, it’s 9AM and the damn phone is ringing.
Well, if you have to be shaken awake by the phone at the crack of noon, it is totally almost worth it when the person on the other end of the line is your husband and his first words are, “I just wanted to tell you that you were right…”
I was right. I mean, yeah, I knew that already but it’s nice when someone other than me figures it out.
Honestly, however, his actual first words were, “were you sleeping?” To which, of course, I had to answer indignantly, “noooo. I was downstairs doing laundry” because it’s so embarrassing to be caught sleeping late, isn’t it? Especially when the person who is calling you has already been at work for two hours and you still have your bite guard in your thick, drooly mouth and don’t know what day it is.
It’s the final closet in which we hide: liking to sleep. Time to out myself – hey, Westboro Baptist Church, over here! There is something unnatural going on in my bedroom. I’m sleeping late. It’s queer. Get used to it.
Arise, you prisoners of sleep-deprivation. Oh wait, don’t arise. Go back to bed. Wear proudly your sleep-wrinkled face into the harsh afternoon light.
Fuck grabbing the day at sunrise and filling as many hours as you can with LIFE. Nobody wants to be grabbed early in the morning, and I know all you ladies are with me on that one. I bet even the sun would prefer that we all just leave her the fuck alone for an hour or so to have her coffee and scratch herself instead of all the life-grabbers hiking up mountains and driving out to beaches and setting their alarms to watch her rise. It’s really kinda twisted and voyeuristic, when you think of it.
I am going to blame menopause for my need to sleep late even though I generally like to blame Dick Cheney. Because even though menopause may not be the cause of my need for sleep (especially since I’ve been this way since, oh, I was ten), I can guarantee you that The Dick robs me of my sleep; God forbid his face comes into my dreamworld I would force myself to wake up. And Lysol my brain. And never sleep again.
“…you were right…” Robin told me, is my point, however.
Were sweeter words ever spoken over a phone at 9AM? Never mind that I don’t even remember what I was right about (oh wait, yes I do: everything); those words alone are balm to the soul. Whipped cream cheese to the perfectly toasted bagel. Pants that you don’t have to suck in your stomach to button. A clean mammogram. A clean house. All your emails answered. A twenty-dollar-bill in your coat pocket. A morning poop. Vindication. These are a few of my favorite things.
So I’m going to New York in a couple of days and I will probably have to get up early because Ken and Adam, with whom we are staying, will be getting up early and they will judge me harshly if I am asleep when they leave for work and just getting up when they get home and after a week I will have nothing to show for being there other than the absence of a headache and a well-rested complexion.
Which, come to think of it, is totally worth the trip.

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