The Art of Waking Up

I finally realized what the problem was last night. My four alarms--three on my phone and one across the room on my dresser--weren't varied enough. Somehow, my phone alarms had been reset to ring with the standard Verizon ring tone. Surely, I thought to myself, this is the reason I have gone from getting up at least forty-five minutes before leaving for work to getting up only twenty-five mintues prior to leaving for my work day. Tired of attempting to walk into work eight minutes after leaving when it takes nine to get there, plus five more to walk in the front door, my waking up routine has got to change.

My dilemma, though, is that there is something beautiful and tranquil about waking up to the sun streaming through the window. Call me a romantic , but this seems to me the perfect way to start a new day. Unfortunately, I only see this perfect slice of light maybe ten times a year--it's that morning glow as the sun first peeks over the horizon, illuminating the tree line on the other side of the railroad tracks running parallel to my house. On work days I theoretically wake up too early, in the darkness and shadows of pre-morning light, or on the weekends, too late, when the light grows harsher as the sun edges toward noon.

Since I cannot drink of this morning perfection on a daily basis, the next best thing, I've decided, is waking up in slow stages, moving from unconscious sleep to gradual awareness and a feeling of contentment. Achieving this state is a carefully constructed process:

• First, my early alarms must play harmonious notes, nothing loud and cacophonous, to avoid startling myself into hated awareness. These alarms ring every five minutes, which I dutifully turn off or ignore as I drift between the worlds of sleep and wakefulness, sometimess praying, more frequently dozing.
• Second, my alarm across the room blares--purposely so, to get me to rise from my slumber--which I then dutifully set for fifteen minutes later, feeling proud of myself for actually getting up. As I slide back under the covers for one more dose of warmth, I inevitably fall asleep again.
• Then, my fourth alarm goes off, this one still gentle yet more forceful than the first two phone alarms, to which I grab my phone and snuggle with it so as to be able to silent the alarm more quickly. At this point, consciousness is starting to set in: I should get up. Really, I should. I've got work to attend to, miles to go before I should sleep again...yet I have not quite achieved that moment of perfection where my brain feels ready to embrace the world and my body rested.
• Finally, after resetting my blaring alarm for the fifth time, I realize that an hour and fifteen minutes have passed. Happiness, peace, dreams of coffee and eggs and ham...

...until I realize I have twenty minutes to get ready.

I frantically shoot out of bed and head for the shower, racing to get clean and put make up on and at least run a brush through my hair. I grab breakfast en route to the car, and lunch, too, ready to peel out of the parking area. And I pull into work just in the nick of time, happy that I feel well even if I look and act a bit discombobulated.

But then I have days like today, where the pieces do not fall into place. The alarms rang harmoniously, I turned them off and on like a pro, I even got myself fully dressed, remembering to put on my makeup even, and I was feeling pretty good about this last-minute routine I've developed.

I slid behind the wheel of my car and pulled out. There was a catch, a rougher role to the motion that seemed a little odd. I jumped out to see what I surely was imagining, only to be confronted with the hard, cold reality that my new passenger tire was flat as a pancake. There would be no driving to work in the nick of time for me. Sigh. Practicing this routine had finally caught up with me.

Needless to say, I have learned again,the hard way, that I need to spend a little less time perfecting the art of waking up.