My least favorite time of day is the time between my alarm ringing and me rising out of bed. However this fact would not be made obvious by the number times I hit the snooze button. I average about three times. Four or five on the weekends, Tuesdays, and other miscellaneous days-off that I attempt to be ambitious and get out of bed. God bless the man I marry, after a few weeks of being kind and rising with my alarm, I will forget that I love him and respect him and ruin hours of his life in nine minute segments. I loftily imagine that he will reconcile this fact with my maddening good looks and steely blue eyes. Let's face it, by the time we are fifty, we will sleep in separate bedrooms only because I hate getting up.
Not only do I hate getting up, but I am completely irrational while I lie sleepily on the princess and the pea (otherwise known as the ridiculously tall mattress I sleep upon). If you try to talk to me, I will either tell you that I hate you like Osama hates Americans or that it would be in your nose's best interest to remain quiet. If I don't say it out loud, the words are definitely ringing very loudly between my own ears. My nonverbal scowl might say it best.
Unfortunately, my sentiments for rising out of bed feel eerily similar to those surrounding the beginning of this upcoming training session. That's right, it is time to start training for the next half-marathon. The race is in April and a number of my friends are going to get out and run that morning. Some are running the full marathon. Others will run alongside of me. Others will join up to run a marathon relay race. It is going to be spectacular.
But I have to start training. Now. And I can't seem to stop hitting the snooze button.