My alarm went off this morning. This is my “It’s friggin’ 7 AM and if you haven’t already woken up on your recognisance then you better seriously reconsider your life because, honey, I’m all that separates you from your comfy king-sized bed with orthopedic mattress and 300 thread-count sheets and being a bag lady” alarm. I’ve largely been ignoring this alarm for the last year, not unlike like a teenager grunting in response to being told for the 5th time to take out the garbage. Last spring, this sing-song dispatch of doom was mere punctuation on interminable episodes of sleep-depriving back pain; later, it infringed upon my drug-induced valium comas (which, after hours of the aforementioned pain, had whisked me off to fairy land usually only a paltry three hours before); then it crowded in on my reprieves from mid-night fretting over my ailing, aging canine’s new obsession with thrashing on the bed like a detoxing alcoholic trying to get the cockroaches to stop crawling all over his face; other times, it just ominously tolled another day in which I go to work, full of life, feel shut down by 10 AM, sometimes downright scared and defensive by 1 PM, and come home able to do nothing but stare at the TV for the rest of the evening. As you might imagine, this alarm came to seem as about as useful to me a pair of long johns in summer. It just wasn’t what was needed.
Had I thought about it this weekend, I would have disabled it. But I hadn’t. And so, this morning, it went off for the 78th time in this, my 39th year of zipping around the sun. And although I didn’t sleep all that well last night, the alarm didn’t really bother me this time. In fact, it struck me as kind of amusing. Yeah, the more I lay there, the funnier it was. Kind of like finding yourself the butt of a comedian’s jokes in a nightclub, there’s no harm in laughing at yourself because, when all is said and done, you get to go home whenever you want, looking like a good sport, but he’s gotta come back out night after night and try to get people to like him all over again. So, to my beloved alarm I say: Whatevah.
I think, for now, I’ll keep it. I mean, let’s face it: I can always nap later.