Sleeping is without a doubt the second best thing one can do in their bed. (Mom, if you're reading this, the first best thing is of course watching wholesome television, fully-clothed.)My love affair with sleeping began in kindergarten. My report cards reflected that I excelled at all academic subjects, but the untold story of my nap time skills is the real reason behind my child prodigy status. I can admit to having an unhealthy obsession with my Aladdin sleeping bag, my security blanket (a full size bed sheet), sucking my thumb, and leaving drool stains on my pillows.
It was during these formative years that I perfected the art of falling asleep anywhere.
(I'll probably get back to filling out my Employee of the Month application when I wake up.)Anyway, as a 5-year-old, the inconvenient circumstances under which I would attempt to nap included (but were not limited to) the following:
- the incessant sobbing of the classmate with separation anxiety.
- the blood curdling screams of someone who closed their finger in the toy chest.
- the loud thud of Lincoln Logs being violently tossed around the block area
(likely followed by more blood curdling screams if anyone was actually in the line of fire)
- and the simultaneous imitations of police cars, ambulances, fire trucks, and helicopters.
Little did I know, the sleeping skills I acquired in elementary school would be vital to surviving life in the big apple, where I have yet to experience a SINGLE night without hearing the piercing sirens of an emergency vehicle. Seriously Manhattan? How many fires can their possibly be in one city on any given night?!
After a restless slumber where I dramatically toss and turn under my covers, smother myself (or my snoring boyfriend) with a pillow, and sometimes even whimper aloud about how badly I need to fall asleep, the last sound in the world I am ready to hear is my motherfucking alarm.
I've been using my cellphone as an alarm clock since an unfortunate falling out with my Sony Dream Machine. (Let's just say waking up hungover to "She Works Hard for the Money" at 5am on a Sunday before a double shift at IHOP would probably send you into a fit of uncontrollable rage too.)
So each morning I play a rousing game of Man vs. Snooze. You would think that at 26 years old, I would have learned my lesson by now. Snoozing is an evil concept developed by a horrible human being at an alarm clock factory.
I foolishly set the same two alarms day after day. The first goes off at 6am for those rare mornings that I have enough energy figure out how to tie my sneakers for a pre-work jog. Realistically, that alarm is turned off within 2.7 seconds of making a chirp.
The second alarm is set for 7:20am, which has proven to be the most ineffective time for me to attempt to start my day. I roll over and whack the snooze button at least once. 7:25. I do it again. 7:30. And once more. 7:35. As always, right around this time I hear the bathroom door close and the water turn on. Roommate is in the shower. I guess I have no choice but to snooze for at least another 15 minutes*
*I recently learned that roommate plays the same game, hoping that I'll get in the bathroom first giving her no other option but to lay in bed longer*
Before I know it, it's 8:05am. I've zoned out to an episode of SBTB (although I'd later tell my co workers that I was watching some special CNN report that I care deeply about) and I've rationalized not needing to wash my hair or iron my pants all in the name of more sleep.
As much as I consider myself a connoisseur of naps, I must give credit where credit is due. Roommate and I took the below photo last Friday sometime between 2:30 and 4am. Neither of us were sober enough to think that waking him might be a bad idea, so after snapping this pic, we tentatively approached him and began shouting "Hey Buddy, Are you OK?" (For the record, we had his best interest in mind and thought putting him in a cab would be the good Samaritan thing to do.)
You may have noticed that Drunky Mc Naps on Street is only wearing one flip flop. Once he got to his feet, he slurred some barely lucid accusation that we were the ones responsible for his missing shoe. We explained that this is how we found him and would be happy to hail him a cab if he would tell us where he lived. (The actual dialogue was much more animated but is a story better told in person, or in a stand up comedy act.)
He definitely knew that he lived in "kweeez" which we translated to mean "Queens." He also seemed to think that roommate and I had magical powers in simultaneously being able to keep him upright and flag down a taxi. And while this Third Avenue Charmer hadn't a clue where his other shoe was or how to get home, he had no trouble at all rolling down the window and attempting a pick-up line as his cab pulled away from the curb.
I'm sure he spent all day Saturday hitting his snooze button.
Friday was capped off by a beautiful sunset picnic on the point of Sapphire Beach and an early bed time for all, as our sailing excursion was scheduled to begin at 8:30am the next morning.
