September 21, 1998
The Line Blurs (Scenes From My Morning)


The Dream:

5 a.m.  I gently swim toward consciousness to Dvorak's "New World" Symphony, emanating softly from the clock radio next to my bed.

I've just enjoyed a nightful of deep, energizing sleep, filled with those complex *story dreams* I love so much; now I need a moment to adjust to reality ...

... so I snuggle deeply into my blankets and luxuriate for a minute or two, listening to the birds outside my bedroom window, planning my day,  running through my list of Daily Affirmations. ("I am calm, capable and tolerant." "Leap, and the net will appear." "Her struggle is her success.")


The Reality:

6:10 a.m.  ...  and the alarm didn't go off.  Again. Fuck several ducks, all in a row.

I've basically *enjoyed* 89.4 minutes of sleep the entire night, thanks to New Next-Door-Neighbor-Guy and his DOG ... and I spent 89.3 of those minutes *enjoying* the Overflowing Toilet Dream again.  I roll off the ouch, still wearing last night's bathrobe (and most of last night's dinner) and I hit the shower, running through my list of Daily *Shoulda/Woulda/Couldas.* ("I shoulda set up the Mr. Coffee before I went to bed last night"/"I woulda liked to have SLEPT another EIGHTEEN HOURS"/"I coulda finished college, I suppose") ...






The Dream:

The thing I love most about my morning shower is how energized it makes me feel, even on my sleepiest mornings. I love the smell of shampoo and soap, and the sensation of steam rising all around me, and that lovely good morning feeling of endless possibilities.


The Reality:

The thing I love most about this particular morning shower is that I remembered to take my bathrobe off first.








The Dream:

Breakfast is an uncomplicated affair: a lightly toasted English muffin with a whisper of orange marmalade, a glass of orange juice, a cup of hot fresh coffee. I sit at my kitchen table, overlooking the Oregon City hillside, and linger over the morning paper, watching the sunrise.


The Reality:

Ravenously hungry, I inspect the contents of my fridge. Four-day-old Rice-A-Roni? Or a really iffy-looking bagel (wearing a nicer-looking sweater than anything in *my* closet, I might add)?





The Dream:

I run a comb through my hair and gently pat a fingertip's worth of concealer beneath each eyelid ... thanking God, once again, for my naturally vibrant good looks. If this were a *date night* I might consider a hint of mascara or a swash of highlighter under the brow ... but I plan to stay home and study tonight.

The Reality:

There are twenty-eight green rubber rollers in my hair and approximately $167.89 worth of cosmetics on my face, and I STILL look like I'm operating on 89.4 minutes of sleep.

This is going to be a very long day indeed.

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