Bah, humbug.
I finally convinced myself to shut down the computer and turn off the lights at around 4:00 this morning. Bo was asleep sideways on the bed, having spread out there right after we returned home from grocery shopping. He fell into a deep, snoring sleep shortly thereafter. I didn't want to wake him, though I hated the idea of sleeping sideways on the bed, especially since the corner of the fitted sheet had come dislodged from the corner of the bed. But I grabbed my trusty down pillow and knee-walked across the mattress, dropping my pillow somewhere around Bo's feet. Just as I was about to rest my head, Bo stirred, rose, and immediately began pulling the sheet back into place. I rose, too, and did my part, and then I curled up on my side of the bed and waited for sunrise.
As if the alarm wouldn't have come early enough, the phone rang obnoxiously at 7:00 a.m. When the phone rings at either 6:30 or 7:00, I always know that it will be an Amish neighbor. For some reason, they like to make all of their phone calls during hours when most people wouldn't think of calling another human being. Not late at night, but early in the morning, though I've also had calls from young Amish girls as late as midnight. I always feel guilty when I answer an Amish phone call, because I feel like I should be awake and milking cows or something, so I probably talk faster than I normally do, and I doubt that I make much sense. But that's what you get when you call me at 7 a.m.
After the phone conversation, I debated about whether I should go back to sleep or get up, since my alarm was set to explode in just a short 45 minutes. While I debated, I rested my eyes, then the decision was made for me.
When the whiny, nagging alarm clock started screaming at me, I slammed the snooze bar, even though John Tesh says that's a very, very bad thing to do. I couldn't help it. Why is it that I had to force myself to sleep at 3:30 in the morning, but when it comes to 7:45, I fight to stay in bed?
Again, the nagging alarm started its schpiel again, the internal arguing started. The sleepy me wanted to stay in bed and ask my husband to call my walking partner and tell her that I was sick. I was in no mood to walk, especially with the plummeting temperatures highlighting the fact that I don't know where my gloves are.
But the guilt-ridden me won over. I climbed out of bed, did no more than brush my teeth (I was still wearing my clothes which I slept in last night. That's truly depressing) and pull on some winter garb, forced myself into my husband's heatless Jeep and barrelled down the road.
Okay, okay. I'm glad I went, alright? I needed the walk, and I needed the talk. But I'm still dragging, and that idiotic guilt-ridden me won't let me take a nap. She keeps nit-picking me. "There are piles of laundry to do. The dusting needs done. Aren't you going to make Christmas cookies?" She's beginning to sound like my dad. Or my kids. Even more frighening, she sounds just like me. I have informed her, in no uncertain terms, that I am NOT in the Christmas spirit, that I have no interest in being merry and bright, that she can stick her glad tidings in her ear, and that I will most definitely NOT spend my evening making a popcorn garland while watching Will Ferrell act like an overgrown Elf.
After my walk, I hit the local thrift store and found a great papasan chair for $7, along with a stack of Bon Apetit magazines (ten cents each) and a fistful of vintage Christmas cards (also ten cents each). When I finally dragged my prodigal butt home, eleven-year-old Monet was waiting anxiously by the door for me to get out of the cold Jeep.
"Guess what! Guess what! We have a Christmas tree!" I gave him my standard "I'm-the-confused-mother" look and he elaborated. My walking buddy, Kim, who knows that money, the very root of all possible evils, is very tight for us and that, so far, a Christmas tree has not been in the cards for the Thicket household, delivered a Christmas tree while I was gone. Now it's here, in my house, waiting to be decorated and loved. I have no idea where she got it, but there it is.
That certainly changes things.
Now I *have* to make Christmas cookies, pull out the Elf DVD and mix up some eggnog.
Heck, we might even string some popcorn garlands.
May your days be merry and bright.
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