THE KULA KID – “BOX SPRING BATTLEFIELD”
“Who needs sleep?/Well you’re never gonna get it/Who needs sleep?/Tell me, what’s that for?/Who needs sleep?/Be happy with what you get/There’s guys been awake since the second World War…” – Barenaked Ladies, “Who Needs Sleep?”
BLEEP. BLEEP. BLEEP. BLEEP.
Emerging from my comforter cocoon, a lonely, chicken-skinned arm dangles, exposed, like the peeking onset of a Barrel of Monkeys escape. It is the wee, dark hours of the M-F. That wretched noise is gone, but not for long.
A siren in the distance. A war horn’s blare, buried in the din of oblivion—but louder and louder it grows…
BLEEP. BLEEP. BLEEP. BLEEP.
The sheets hold more sway than the prospects of post-sleep. Although my horizontal position is maintained, with every blind whap against the alarm’s biggest button, precious morning minutes are gobbled up, leaving little more than cookie crumbs and broken bits in the bottom of the blister pack.
But like the last bag of Chips Ahoy! before fat camp, I fight for those vestiges of sweet, sweet slumber. And though I risk compounding habitual tardiness and reaffirming lethargy (scientifically speaking, it’s known as muscle-less memory), I return with relish to the dawn-drenched outskirts of Dreamland—a war zone.
BLEEP. BLEEP. BLEEP. BLEE—WHAP!
I wield Snooze like a blade without a handle. The angry edge buries into my palm with every swoop. One whap thwarts a good shave in the shower that is yet to be taken; another whap and there goes the flossing of teeth yet to be brushed; and whap after whap rushes the things that are to be gathered, postpones the tank and cup(s) to be filled, enrages the commute to be conquered, compromises the work to be done…
But oh! Each extra, sweet second is worth the sloth; and while in bed, there are bigger battles.
BLEEP. BLEEP. BLEEP. BLEE—WHAP!
After all, there’s the issue of the the Down Duelists—marshmallow monstrosities who slap your cheek with Egyptian cotton gloves before firing feathers at your face so as to tickle you to tears and seal your eyes shut with maka pia pia—and the Blanket Brigade—quilted Frankenstein paratroopers who descend to smother you with fleece just as your bleary eyes venture to open again. And when your lashes have been twist-tied and body cozily mummified, they rock you off to their PillOW camp where there’s naught but the whisper of white noise and favorite lullabies from an infancy forgotten. Until…
BLEEP. BLEEP. BL—WHAP!
I’m a traitor, confused between consciousness. I’ve not put up much of a fight against the ZZZs. If anything, I’ve been a guilty-conscience accomplice to my own capture. How many whaps has it been? Eight? Twelve? More? The whapping end of my lonely arm has stretched and laid to rest on the Snooze.
“It’s a sickness,” my increasingly more pissed-off bedmate screams. “Just wake up or turn the alarm off.”
“No! If I turn the alarm off, there’s no telling how long I’ll sleep,” I drool. “’Til tomorrow, maybe. Or even the next day.” It’s a reply half-meant to appease the left side of the mattress, half to ward off the Wink Warriors, luring me back to REM. They stretch their stitched faces into sinister smiles, seeming to like the thought of me being blissfully bedridden.
BLEEP. BLEEP. BL—CRUNCH.
An angry fist does not whap.
“Just. Wake. Up.” A wire shoots a faint spark. A furtive blee. Then, silence.
“OK. Jeez Louise. Good morning to you, too.”
“What?! That damn alarm has been going off for hours, and…”
But there are showers to take, teeth to be brushed, things to gather, tanks and cup(s) to fill, commutes to conquer, work to be done and new, hopefully less groggy battles to fight.
***
Thanks for the cool opening quote, Captain:
Wow. This hurts so good:
Ronnie and I are founding members of the Fro Club for Ambiguously Ethnic Women:
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