So it’s not really Saturday morning. Saturday morning grew old and shrivelled away while I slept through it. It’s 3 pm right now, I got up about half an hour ago, and now I’m sitting here with my hair looking like the eighties exploded in it, still in my PJs, consisting of grey leggings and a black oversized men’s sweatshirt, eating cookies and drinking tea. I don’t even have a list for today. The best mornings are those that don’t happen in the morning. Right now I’m having the best morning ever, if you define ‘morning’ as ‘time shortly after I stumbled out of bed’. Like, bow down, bitches all over the universe, my day is already superior to yours.
And this would be my ideal morning, not only on Saturdays, always, but I’ve declared Saturday my sleep-in day (so I get up semi-early on Sunday, so the up-early hormone crash of Monday won’t be so bad). But alas, it’s not to be. Not even really today. Like, the first thing Boyfriend said to me when I woke up was, in that semi-sad disappointedly agitated tone he can do like no other, “Didn’t you buy any orange juice yesterday?”
Nope. Sorry, Your Worship, I forgot the holy orange juice when I went grocery shopping. I guess in my quest to get you delicious roasted nuts I forgot to purchase the liquid sunshine from the gods, ever so sorry, good Sir Knight. Never mind that you could have run down to the store and bought some yourself, I noticed you got up at 9 am again.
There’s always been a problem with Boyfriend’s and mine clashing sleeping schedules. If I don’t absolutely have to get up in the morning, say for work or school or just to meet someone or do something that requires normal people hours, I don’t usually get up. This is aggravated by my tendency to stay up until 5 am. Then I go to bed at 5 am, put in my eight hours, roll out of bed at 1 pm, fresh as a daisy and productive like any old motherfucker. I actually can sleep only eight hours when I do this. Put me to bed at 10 pm, you won’t see much of me until noon.
Boyfriend is attempting to find a way of existing that excludes sleep altogether, and failing at it, failing hard. He gets up at 5 am for work, stays up past midnight to play games, then wonders why he’s tired as hell. In between, he usually falls asleep in his computer chair, at around 7 pm. If he wakes up again, well, that’s good. If he doesn’t, I usually try to shoo him to bed, only to be met with an endless tirade of “I’m not tired!” What’s all this then, this whole eye closed and snoring number? Is that your species’ meditative state or something? And do you always drool on yourself during meditative state?
And these our habits clash on every damned Saturday like the Rebel Alliance and the Galactic Empire. I manage Boyfriend to bed at around 1 or 2 am, which is a lot like wrestling a cranky five year old, then do my thing (aaahhh, alone in a quiet house at last), go to bed myself and presto, he’s up at 9, parks himself in his computer chair, then gives me the judgy stare of judgy judgement when I lurch into the living room somewhen in the early afternoon. And this is where it gets interesting. Because when I get up, somewhere down the road I eat breakfast, shower, clean the kitchen, do whatever’s on my list for the day. When I’m up, I’m up. And this annoys Boyfriend, because sure, he gets up early, but that’s it. He just dicks around, then tells me he’s hungry because he, of course, in his eternal wisdom, has not eaten any damned breakfast, then lectures me about how half the day’s already over and I’m sleeping my life away. Well, excuse you, grouchy old person who’s not my dad, only the part of the day that happens before midnight is partially over. As far as I’m concerned, I have plenty of time.
And so as Saturday morning slowly morphs into Saturday night, I say unto thee: Bitch, don’t kill my vibe. I can sleep if I want to, I can leave your friends behind, ’cause your friends don’t sleep and if they don’t then they’re no friends of mine, S-L-E-E-P….
I’m going back to bed.