Posted by: Jennifer | January 26, 2013

lie-in

Mornings are a weird time for me. I’ve never really thought of myself as a “morning person”. At my core, I’m really kinda lazy and love nothing more than to sleep as much as possible.

When you get older, though, your view on how to treat the morning is forced to change. My alarm goes off at 4:30 on weekdays. an hour at the gym, home to shower and change, then off to fight traffic so I can be at my desk for 7:30a.m. I am typically in bed most nights by 8:30, with a book and a cup of tea. It’s rare for me to still be awake and lucid by 9p.m. No wonder I have trouble finding a date. Who wants to go out with a thirty-three year-old woman who falls asleep sitting at the bar because 9p.m. is past her bedtime?

But weekends are different. Weekends are special. No matter what rules are in place to govern our lives from Monday to Friday, weekends can break the cycle.

I’m typically woken up around 4:30 on Saturday and Sunday mornings. This isn’t because of my hated and loathed alarm clock. My cats seem to enjoy being on a schedule, and for them 4:30 is breakfast. The three of them are better than any alarm clock in the world. I roll out of bed, stumble to the kitchen, throw some sort of chicken-and-fish gunk in bowls on the floor, and then scurry out of the way while the animals converge on their feast. But here’s the part that makes these days so awesome, what separates them from the rest of the week. It’s the part where I get to go back to bed!

I crawl back under the covers to find my spot usually still warm. Covers get pulled up and I burrow as far down as possible. I have the route to thd kitchen and the feeding routine down to a science, so I don’t even have to worry about pulling my glasses off. One minute I’m awake. the next I’m not.

I try to avoid scheduling appointments or making plans in the mornings in weekends. That way I can sleep as long as I want without worrying about when I get up. And let me tell you — I sleep hard on these days. I rarely notice when the cats come to bed, stuffed full from their feasting and looking for a cuddle. I don’t usually register the sun coming in the windows, which is pretty impressive when you consider that my blinds are always open and my bedroom gets direct sunlight in the mornings. During the week, I will wake up every time my phone makes a noise, or a car drives by, or a mouse hiccups in a field twenty miles away. Not on the weekends, though. If Halifax is bombed with nuclear weapons on a Saturday or Sunday, chances are pretty good that I will sleep through the end of days.

When I finally do open my eyes and talk myself into leaving the bed, my first stop (apres le bathroom, of course) is the kitchen, where my Keurig is patiently waiting to pour me my first cup of coffe for the day. Weekends call for something fancy, so it’s usually flavoured coffee, and I froth up some warm milk and fake a latte. I could sprawl on the couch to enjoy my caffinated treat, or or sit at the kitchen table to read the newspaper and sip my beverage. But that would be too…non-weekendy. Nope — my coffee and I are going back to bed.

Back under the cobers I go, drink in hand. Emails and texts are checked on the phone. My tablet hooks me up with whatever events occurred while I slept. The cats are wide awake by this point, and looking for attention. Everyone gets petted and scratched, and goofiness is rewarded with a laugh and a cuddle.

I can’t stay in this bed forever. Eventually, the real world will have to be faced. There are errands to run, dishes to clean, laundry to sort. But for a few hours, two days a week, I can lie in bed and feel like the laziest, most pampered woman onn the planet. And it’s all because of a few extra hours of sleep.

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