Waking Up is Hard to Do 1/21/10

My wife and I slept in today, since we were both off work. The rooster had crowed, hit the snooze button, reawakened, recrowed, and had a pot of coffee by the time we got up. My wife, in her usual, blissful manner, thanked God for my presence in her life, rubbed the dog under his chin, slid into her sandals, and gave me a strong embrace. She did not fart. I, in my hypoglycemic, semi-coherent grumpiness, heard the rumbling in my stomach, turned toward the kitchen, farted, failed to fend off a strong, wifely embrace, then refarted. "Well, no more yogurt at bedtime for you, Mr. Grumpy Man," she cooed. Damned acidophilus and bifidum. To say that I'm not much of a morning person, is like saying that Mt. Sunflower, the highest point in Kansas, is not much of a mountain. Understatement-O-Rama.

I dragged my Eggo and java-loving butt out the door about 3 hours after we got up. That was enough time for the coffee to completely pass out of my system, so that I felt even more tired when I went out the door, than I was when my wrestler-wife squeezed the methane out of me. I woke up about 4 miles into my 12-miler, when I began to sort out why my right hand was soaked through 3 layers of gloves and freezing on a 35-degree day: I hadn't properly secured the lid on my water bottle. Oversights like these, kids, will get you dehydrated and frostbit, so make sure you get plenty of sleep, unlike your humble narrator.

And try not to fart first thing in the morning.

Thanks for humoring me.