Lazy February days

Allison and I were having lunch at Aladdin's this afternoon, and she asked me what I'm going to blog about today. I said I didn't know—I'd only been awake for two and half hours.

It's been five and a half hours now and I'm still drawing a blank. The more time I spend in Rochester, the more I slip into my father's schedule, staying up later than I used to, and sleeping later too. I am working (albeit sporadically), freelance editing jobs that are done remotely, so I don't usually have anywhere I have to be in the morning. Why not stay up an extra hour or two at night watching Frasier or It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia or, god help me, The Bachelor? 

I like the late nights, but not the lazy mornings after. As I lie there, drifting in and out of sleep, I am haunted by the idea that should get up at a certain time. Generally the number in my mind is about 9 a.m.—the time I would have to have to be awake and functional if I had a normal job. Or 9:30, when the stock market opens. I look at the bedside table, where my watch lurks, ominously, and worry about what it will say when I finally summon the strength to look at it. If, when I turn the watch face toward my own, it reads 10:30—or 11:30 like it did today—I really start to feel like a slob.

I.

Must.

Get.

Up. 

Allison has long since gone to work, my mom is either at the library or downstairs working on her painting, and my dad is likely drinking coffee and eating an English muffin in his office while watching MSNBC. I dart into the bathroom and take a shower immediately, as if to wash my indolence away ...