Disastrous news.  The unthinkable has happened.  I have become a morning person.

I’m not exactly sure when it happened, but I can no longer sleep past 7am.  Somewhere in the last few years, a magical switch clicked in my medulla oblongata that ensured I never sleep past that particular witching hour.  I have … shudder … turned in to my mother.  She’s up WAY before the roosters.  And she does more before 6am than most people do all day.  It’s not unlike the Army, but a completely deranged version of it.

In my heyday, I could easily sleep 14 hours without even batting an eyelash (or getting up to pee repeatedly).  Now, 5:30am hits and I’m, as they say, up and at ‘em.  It’s 5:44am right now … and I’m writing this tell-all blog.  For whatever reason(s), I do my best scribing before the sun comes up.  I tend to be unfiltered and uninhibited while there’s still sleep particles crusted in my eye.

While at home over the Thanksgiving holiday, I slept in my original childhood bed/bedroom.  On Thanksgiving morning, I rolled over to look at the clock (as I’m wan to do) and it said 8:58am.  For a brief moment, I thought — that has to be a misprint.  And then a wave of fear washed over me as I assumed the house was filled with carbon monoxide — which would explain why I was just coming out of R.E.M.  Turns out, I was just really tired and comfortable. There’s something Zen-like and mystical about being in the bed where you spent your fundamental teen years.  (You know — the years where you could sleep 24 hours in a row in the non-blink of an eye.)

Come to think of it, I slept in every single day at my folks’ house over the holiday weekend.  And I napped every afternoon too.  And went to bed crazy early,- like when-the-streetlights-come-on-early.

Good Lord, the unthinkable HAS happened.  I’ve turned in to one of those old people who like to sleep all the time.  Meh, I’d be worried if I weren’t so tired.  I’ll probably ask my parents what they think.

And they’ll get back to me … probably after they sleep on it.