There was a time, in days of yore, that a dueling scar meant something. A man sporting such a mark on his visage was perceived as both heroic and dangerous, with a certain mystique about him. He had survived a duel to the death, with the slash of his opponent’s épée or saber as plain as the nose on his face. That is, of course, if he had not lost his nose as well.
Today I awoke with what looked like a dueling scar etched into my face. That is because I slept late. School has been out of session, and that means I may ignore the alarm and sleep a few hours more. I think the Beatles said it best:
“Please don’t wake me, no, don’t shake me. Leave me where I am, I’m only sleeping.”
So deeply did I sleep, my face scrunched tightly into my pillow, that I paid the price—the mark of a crease in my pillow imprinted deeply upon my left cheek. Add a monocle and I looked like a puffy-eyed Prussian duelist. Whatever happened to the beauty in beauty rest?
This stupid-looking, snoozing scar remained visible for most of the morning. Even more stupid is that this is not the first snoozing scar I have earned. Yes, it’s true. I am a serial snoozer.
I love sleep. I swear I could hear my bed calling out to me on chilly workday mornings. “Come back to bed, bella principessa,” it whispers alluringly. (I am Italian and my mattress is a Serta so, yes, my bed sounds like Armand Asante!)
“Come back to me,” my bed croons softly. “It is so cold and I am so warm and firm.” Hey, I like a firm mattress, OK?
It is so difficult resisting the temptation to cocoon myself in soft, downy covers so early in the morning, but I somehow gather my wits. “No, I mustn’t! Asante, get thee behind me!”
I like to start my mornings slowly, like a poppy opening its petals to the morning sun. Unlike a poppy, I need coffee and the morning news to shock me back to reality. I often don’t even speak for at least 30 minutes as I meditate on why I am up so early since I am now retired. Oh, how I would love to retire back to bed! But I must take The Briteen, our 13-year-old, to school.
My English spouse, The Brit, has refined his retirement to an art, but that’s because he’s been at it longer as has more practice. He’s also incredibly lazy in the mornings. “Do you mind if I have a lay-in?” he murmurs from beneath the warmth of our cat, Mae. She likes to sleep on his head, so I call her his night-cat!
Mae is the reason that I keep my slippers by the bed. Sometimes I have to get up in the middle of the night. Navigating the bedroom and bathroom in bare feet in the dark is a bad idea when you live with a cat. The dread of stepping on a fresh, squishy fur ball in utter darkness is enough to give Dean Koontz nightmares!
Weekday mornings mean waking the boys. I try to do so the way I like being awakened, slowly and gently. The reason for this is my mother. This woman would awaken me on school days in the dead dark of morning by switching on the blinding ceiling light in my bedroom.
“Time to get up!” She’d bark like a boot camp drill sergeant. “Are you awake? What do you want for breakfast? Did you pack your lunch last night? Is all your homework ready to go?” It was like being interrogated by the CIA. I’m telling you, my mother could teach the directors of our national intelligence agencies a thing or two.
My husband is so difficult to awaken in the mornings. I have tried everything. This is the same man who, on soccer weekends, is up at the crack of dark to watch the Arsenal Football Club play live from England on television. He even gets dressed and dons one of his many Arsenal soccer shirts.
The rest of the week he sleeps so soundly that clock alarms are useless. Shouting and loud music do not work because he isn’t wearing his hearing aids. Opening the drapes or turning on lights only causes him to hunker deeper under the cat and coverlet. (Hey, that sounds like a great name for an English pub—The Cat and Coverlet!)
Shaking him only makes him lash out and bellow in his sleep. It’s like releasing the Kraken. I finally found the answer to waking the Brit— I put on a black veil and sit on the edge of the bed and cry. It gets his attention every time!
I quietly call our Briteen to roust him from his sleep. He is easier to awaken in the morning. He knows he had better respond because my next move is to gently stroke his bare back and neck with my icy morning hands. This is always my last resort because it means risking my life by entering his room.
Navigating the shoes slung by his bed and the backpack and skateboard near the door in the dark requires instinctive skills. But nerves of steel, along with the olfactory senses of a forensic scientist, are required to even open the door. It’s not the soccer boots, sneakers, or yesterdays socks that concern me. It’s the flatulence of death that makes my blood run cold.
Our Briteen farts in his sleep, and he sleeps with our shih-tzu, Honey, who also farts in her sleep. These two are made for each other. Every morning I open the windows and air out his room. The other day a haz-mat crew showed up. But I made them leave because we were still on school break and I had a date with my Asante, I mean Serta. Again, I defer to John and Sir Paul: “Please, don’t spoil my day, I’m miles away and after all I’m only sleeping.” Good night, sleep tight, and Happy New Year!
Sshhh! Ariel Waterman is still sleeping. Send her sweet dreams (and air fresheners for the Briteen’s room) via her editor Ryan Miller at rmiller@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Jan 8-15, 2015.
