morning head: Tuesday, 21st July, 2015
I vaguely recall stumbling downstairs in the darkness to turn off the alarm. The extra alarm. The one that goes off after the four I have already turned off on the phone beside the bed, after half an hour of ABC News Radio innocuously attempts to drag the heavy blanket of sleep from over my head.
I also vaguely recall, back in bed after the offending racket was muted, the rain thundering gloriously on the balcony and my hand, independent of any connection to my brain save the acknowledgement of the convenient excuse, sending a message that I would not be joining my erstwhile workout buddies in a session of stair running.
Exercising in the rain? Not a fucking chance. That’s the providence of non-parents, of people with the energy and drive to anything more than what is absolutely necessary for survival.
Which right now, should include me. I’m in the house alone again. I have all the time in the world, a to-do list longer than War and Peace, and a can-do attitude. And yet my body is stubbornly refusing to go the distance. It’s apparently sending me a message, independent of any connection to my brain: Get up before dawn? On one of the three days between now and 2030 that I can keep sleeping? Not a fucking chance.