Sweet Dreams, Sour Mornings

I can’t be the only person who does this. In fact, I’m sure I’ve read that there have been studies regarding this very phenomenon. But I can’t get my head around it.

I work reasonably hard during the day… there are household chores to be done, things to write, children to teach (along with the associated planning, marking and report writing), the dog to walk, step goals to achieve on the pedometer. You know, important stuff. Enough to keep my little brain and no-so-little body occupied for the waking hours. There are also movies to be watched, songs to be ever-so-sweetly murdered, there is linguine gamberi to eat, and gin to infuse with fresh lime juice. So even more important stuff too. I like to go to bed late – at around midnight – and I am usually pretty tired (often overtired) by the time I drag myself into the bedroom and force myself to stop playing Words with Friends (Friends = mainly Dad) on my phone.

Yet there’s some sort of strange magic that happens when my head hits the pillow. I really ought to check if my fabric softener contains any known hallucinogens. Because as soon as my face touches the marshmallowy softness I become invincible, and radioactive, and capable of conquering the world. Charlie the Setter makes for an excellent Pinky substitute.

Imbued with the confidence of all the Gods combined, I spend at least half an hour plotting my global domination: I decide I can and will rekindle my love for the gym, eat healthily, and lose all 75 excess lbs in the next week; I write award-winning lyrics and movie plots; I plan every moment of time for the following morning and pride myself on its productivity; I fathom a series of cures for mental health issues and a full-scale method of distributing it for free; I discover unbounded excitement and faith that my soulmate is out there waiting for me; I come up with the most perfect ideas for every birthday present and Christmas present I will need to buy for the next 5 years; it becomes blindingly obvious how I am going to make my fortune – and how I can distribute such unnecessary wealth philanthropically once I have bought and furnished the most beautiful house imaginable; I devise the perfect tweet to cure all the political chaos of the past few years. I even remember where I left the spare set of car keys.

And then my alarm goes off at 06:50am and it takes every inch of self-will I can muster just to roll over and switch the satanic thing off.

Run? This morning? What was I thinking? The weather is inclement. My joints are too sore. I can’t find matching socks. Pick whichever excuse you like. They are all perfectly justifiable in the moments between the soft tones of I Giorni rousing me from my slumber and me repeatedly smashing my palm into the face of my phone until it connects with the snooze button.

Every night. Every morning. A perpetual cycle of Superhero to Super Sloth. Can I break it? Can I heck. But I may well break my phone…