My Daily Hindrance
Once again, my blogging has been delayed. This time I’m blaming in on mornings and my revised requirements with said time of day…
A few weeks ago, our department was blessed with a new edict from the big boss—“Be in your chairs by 8:15!” To some, that may not seem like a tall order. To me, it’s become what feels like a daily dose of bricks to the head. I just don’t do mornings very gracefully.
Prior to the directive, our group straggled in between 8:15 and 9:00 a.m. I’ll be the first to admit that I was usually bringing up the rear or close to it. However, most evenings I was also the one locking up the department and turning off the lights closer to 6:00 p.m. than not, unless civic commitments required my attendance. And I actually found the hours after everyone else religiously streamed out when the whistle blew to be some of my most productive. Regardless, our rules changed, and with it, my distaste for mornings has amplified.
Most mornings my alarm now goes off by 6:30 a.m. With the Texas heat and my attempt to stick to a training schedule, mornings are the only time to enjoyably run and escape the oppressive heat. Every night I go to bed with the best intentions of early rising. Then morning comes. Some days I get up without a fight; some days I don’t. Either way, it’s never with the initial buzzer…more like with the fourth alert or the back-up, final-warning second alarm. Typically I lie in bed whimpering and repeating my morning mantra, “I don’t want to. I don’t want to,” until my ever-so patient husband forces me to get moving. (Might I add, he doesn’t have to be at work at 8:15 a.m.)
You may wonder if it’s always been this way. My mother reminisces about a time when I actually embraced the early hours and got up easily to read and play the piano. I don’t recall those days. Instead, I remember the times when my eyes refused to open and my body didn’t recall how to unwind from its comfortable cocoon until a shock of ice cold water forced me to rejoin the living. Yes, my father actually had to resort to pouring water over my head to get me out of bed. Oh the horror if it gets to that point again and my husband has to do the same…
Looking around the department, I realize it could be more difficult. I don’t worry about getting any kiddos ready for the day and off to school or daycare. My husband is completely responsible, and my dog generally goes into his crate without a fight—even when he pouts. So it’s really just me focused on getting myself moving. I was told the first week would be the worst. However, we’re on week three and counting. I’m doing my best, and along with it comes a few more days sans make-up and wet hair. Ah, well… I still adhere to the idea it will get easier.
Happy mornings to all!
A few weeks ago, our department was blessed with a new edict from the big boss—“Be in your chairs by 8:15!” To some, that may not seem like a tall order. To me, it’s become what feels like a daily dose of bricks to the head. I just don’t do mornings very gracefully.
Prior to the directive, our group straggled in between 8:15 and 9:00 a.m. I’ll be the first to admit that I was usually bringing up the rear or close to it. However, most evenings I was also the one locking up the department and turning off the lights closer to 6:00 p.m. than not, unless civic commitments required my attendance. And I actually found the hours after everyone else religiously streamed out when the whistle blew to be some of my most productive. Regardless, our rules changed, and with it, my distaste for mornings has amplified.
Most mornings my alarm now goes off by 6:30 a.m. With the Texas heat and my attempt to stick to a training schedule, mornings are the only time to enjoyably run and escape the oppressive heat. Every night I go to bed with the best intentions of early rising. Then morning comes. Some days I get up without a fight; some days I don’t. Either way, it’s never with the initial buzzer…more like with the fourth alert or the back-up, final-warning second alarm. Typically I lie in bed whimpering and repeating my morning mantra, “I don’t want to. I don’t want to,” until my ever-so patient husband forces me to get moving. (Might I add, he doesn’t have to be at work at 8:15 a.m.)
You may wonder if it’s always been this way. My mother reminisces about a time when I actually embraced the early hours and got up easily to read and play the piano. I don’t recall those days. Instead, I remember the times when my eyes refused to open and my body didn’t recall how to unwind from its comfortable cocoon until a shock of ice cold water forced me to rejoin the living. Yes, my father actually had to resort to pouring water over my head to get me out of bed. Oh the horror if it gets to that point again and my husband has to do the same…
Looking around the department, I realize it could be more difficult. I don’t worry about getting any kiddos ready for the day and off to school or daycare. My husband is completely responsible, and my dog generally goes into his crate without a fight—even when he pouts. So it’s really just me focused on getting myself moving. I was told the first week would be the worst. However, we’re on week three and counting. I’m doing my best, and along with it comes a few more days sans make-up and wet hair. Ah, well… I still adhere to the idea it will get easier.
Happy mornings to all!
Labels: mornings
posted by Jill Blevins @ 11:45 AM
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