5:00 in the Morning
And actually, I'd say it's more the curious thing. The curious is like 85, 90 brain-percentage occupation. The worry? A paltry 15. Tops. Sheeesh!
And wine. Not brain occupying -- but it wakes me up. It's an age thing. Younger me could pop a beer, go to bed and sleep through to a respectable time zone. 60-year-old me, a half pour of red and it's a 50/50 I'll be up by four. Not cool.
I've tried to figure out what Mother Nature was thinking. I mean, I've got wrinkles and saggy knees. Is a little wine with dinner too much to ask? I need my sleep.
I'm sure there's some Neanderthal cave person logic to it. Someone HAD to get up early! Especially if you were all ancient-old, say like 14 or something. I guess THAT'S progress, right? Back then everybody was all, "Hey, 14's the new 12!"
Just look how far we've come.
The other thing that woke me was Snoopy. What is it with dogs, huh? They eat trash and tinfoil, cat poop if they can get their paws on it. But seriously, 16 pounds of fury and missing teeth, yet I change his dog food and suddenly we're outside in our nightclothes. (That would be Snoopy without his collar. Snoopy sleeps in the nude. Hedonistic little thing.)
And so here I am. Awake. I fought it -- this being awake. Deep breathing. Pondered my legs in the air -- like I just don't care -- how they look young upside down, with gravity pushing everything back to the 1970s. This getting old thing. Older people -- older-than-older-me people -- tell me I don't know how young I am. Yeah. Yeah. It's all relative. And when I look at my 40-year-old self, in pictures and all, dang! Will I be doing that in another decade? Will I look back at this moment, now, as I watch the big six do a slow-mo to seven THAT April? And will I say to myself, "Dang, girl... 60 was the new 52."
The other thing that woke me was Snoopy. What is it with dogs, huh? They eat trash and tinfoil, cat poop if they can get their paws on it. But seriously, 16 pounds of fury and missing teeth, yet I change his dog food and suddenly we're outside in our nightclothes. (That would be Snoopy without his collar. Snoopy sleeps in the nude. Hedonistic little thing.)
And so here I am. Awake. I fought it -- this being awake. Deep breathing. Pondered my legs in the air -- like I just don't care -- how they look young upside down, with gravity pushing everything back to the 1970s. This getting old thing. Older people -- older-than-older-me people -- tell me I don't know how young I am. Yeah. Yeah. It's all relative. And when I look at my 40-year-old self, in pictures and all, dang! Will I be doing that in another decade? Will I look back at this moment, now, as I watch the big six do a slow-mo to seven THAT April? And will I say to myself, "Dang, girl... 60 was the new 52."