Agonotheta

My Morning Ritual

November 25, 2003

I awoke today barely daring to edge my nose out of the warm cocoon of slumber to peer out into the cold starkness of wintry morning. For today was going to be "one of those days," where my sleep was so comforting, so captivating, so utterly nice, that I felt like a prisoner in the bed of my own making (pun thoroughly intended).

After several minutes of debating with the stubborn five-year-old in my mind, I managed to tear myself away, as a toddler would a Band-Aid on a skinned knee.

"Buuurrrrrrhhh! So . . . cold," I thought, teeth chattering. I stood frozen, perched just off my bed, as if Medusa herself had sidled her way into my room in the middle of the night and tempted me look into her poisoned eyes.

"Nope. Too cold. Back in bed," fragmenting every sentence to convince myself it would be mortally wounding to step beyond the friendly confines of my perfectly temperate comforter.

I lay there once again in pillow-topped heaven for, what seems like hours, but in reality was only a couple of minutes, before I realize that right now is the cut-off time for tardiness.

"Damn you," the five-year-old yells at the adult me, "don't make me get up."

"That bastard has the worst mouth," I think to myself as I drag him kicking and screaming out of my bed. "I've really got to do something about it."

A few minutes later, standing in my kitchen wearing only my Buzz Lightyear oversized slippers and boxer-briefs, eating my Fruity Pebbles, I realize I've got to get rid of the five-year-old inside my head. And I don't mean stop listening or talking to, or even the play-wrestling; I mean kill him. He's trying to control my life.