I have this one bad habit my poor wife has to deal with on a daily basis. No, I’m not talking about body odor or stomach gas, although she is forced to deal with that, too. I’ll come clean and admit it: I’m a snoozer. No, not a boozer (which exhibits some of the same symptoms: sleeping in late, missing work, etc.).
I like to hit the snooze button on my alarm clock. Snoozers are people delusional enough to think they are going to wake up at 6, when in reality they won’t get up until after 7. Even though there is absolutely no way the person will rise at 6, a snoozer sets his or her alarm for 6 anyway and then hits the snooze button five or six or a hundred times prior to actually getting up well after 7 or noon or whenever.
Unfortunately for my wife, whom I love, I am absolutely guilty of this practice. My wife can’t stand it when I hit the snooze button over and over again. Of course, she hates my snoring, too, so awake or asleep she’s really no fan of me in the sack (how sad for me).
To give you an idea of the waking hell my wife constantly endures, here is a breakdown of the routine in my bedroom every morning (don’t worry—it’s rated PG):
5:59 a.m.—My wife is in a deep sleep, probably dreaming about firefighters. I am in a deep sleep right next to her dreaming of a woman in a bikini at the beach—the woman is my wife, of course. Isn’t that nice that I’m dreaming of my wife? Well, I’m only doing it because in the dream she’s holding the keys to a Ferrari.
6:00 a.m.—My alarm cracks the silence with the voice of some radio DJ making some wiseass comment about the cottage cheese on Jessica Simpson’s thighs or some other tragic celebrity story of the moment. My wife is instantly awakened by the alarm, and, for good reason, she’s annoyed (she doesn’t have to be up until 7:40). I don’t hear a thing and continue snoring and slobbering like the oblivious idiot I am.
6:01 a.m.—I’m still enjoying my dream. The Ferrari is red, of course. My wife puts her pillow over her head. The alarm continues raging on.
6:02 a.m.—I feel the Earth’s coldest human foot against my kidneys. People who have been dead for a week, sitting in a freezer at the morgue, have warmer feet than my wife. I can feel the toes of the ice-cold foot trying to pinch the tender skin of my love handles. Ouch! I wake up to hear the witty radio DJ make a comment about thighs and breasts from Kentucky Fried Chicken. I think to myself, “I like fried chicken,” and fall back asleep.
6:03 a.m.—My wife kicks me, hard, and then yells at me, “Turn the alarm off!” I stretch across the edge of the bed and just reach the snooze button on my alarm clock. Ah, the silence is back. I feel my wife roll over in a manner that suggests she’s annoyed with me. Whatever.
6:04 a.m.—I’m back asleep, now dreaming of my wife in a bikini on the beach holding a bucket of chicken. My wife gets up to use the bathroom (since she’s awake anyway—my fault). She is also going to the bathroom because she has a regimen of drinking no less than five gallons of water right before she goes to bed at night. She consumes all of this late-night water, though she possesses a bladder the size of a sparrow’s. End result: She has worn out the carpet in our room from the bed to the commode. It’s her thing. I sleep through it all anyway.
6:06 a.m.—My wife is back in bed, the alarm is quiet, she’s over the drama. She snuggles up to me (yeah, it’s nice).
6:09 a.m.—We are both asleep, happily in each other’s grasp, although she’s imagining snuggling up to a fireman.
6:12 a.m.—The alarm destroys the nice cuddling moment, and my wife slaps me on the back to turn off the alarm. I do it, without even opening my eyes. I lay there for a moment and calculate how many red lights I can run to make it to work by 8 and still hit snooze a dozen more times. I settle on three and fall back asleep.
6:21 a.m.—The alarm fires off again. I hit the snooze button so fast that I don’t even hear the wacky morning DJ finish the word “douchebag.” I roll over to seek out my wife for some more of that cuddling, but instead I find one of the 17 king-size pillows she sleeps with every night. There are so many large pillows in our bed, it’s amazing we conceived two children.
6:30 a.m.—The alarm siren goes off again. I don’t hear it. I do however, hear my wife: “Turn the alarm off! If you weren’t planning on waking up at 6, why did you set it for 6?!” The simple answer is: Nobody plans on going to work late. I strive to be a good employee. Yet, I hit snooze again and fall asleep with my hand on the button.
7:30 a.m.—Now I’ve hit the snooze button for an hour and half straight. My son comes in and asks if one of us is going to get up and make some breakfast. Groggily I say, “Yeah, I’ll fix you something and then I’ll take you and your sister to school.” “What for?” my son asks me. “Today is Saturday.” m
Rob’s wife has been secretly setting the clocks an hour forward after he goes to sleep. Somehow, he’s still 15 minutes late to work.
This article appears in May 14-21, 2009.