It is 4:45 a.m., and incredibly, I am awake and writing this post.
I note this because it is rather extarordinary. As you know, dear friend, I am very serious about sleep and rarely have trouble in that department. But in a moment of weakness last night—the cat curled sweetly on my legs and purring to beat the band, I didn’t have the heart (or the energy, truth be told)—to put him out. That would have required waking him, then chasing him from living room to kitchen to dining room three times before heading to the front door, only to have him look at me in a what on earth have you been doing? kind of way.
Yes, I should have plucked that cat from that cozy comforter and tossed him into the night when I had the chance.
Lest you judge me too harshly, do let me explain that that crazy feline, sweet as he has become in old age, simply refuses to stay inside for the full overnight. Rain, heat, snow—somewhere between 3 and 4 a.m. he wakes to create such a racket you simply must obey and let him out.
There’s the “I’m awake and let me wake you, as well” start: a slow walk up the back of your legs to your head, then a gentle flick to your cheek with a single claw. Oh, stop it Tiger, you think, and roll over to the other side. He comes right back at you, a little more determined this time, a little less gentle. You swat. He moves on to the bedside table, where in your twilight sleep state objects begin to move. The pretty tray rattles. A book shifts. A clink. Dammit, you remember. There’s a full glass of water.
His coup d’état? Clawing of the investment bedroom rug.
So you see, my friend, I really had no choice but to get up at 4:20 a.m. to let that damn cat out. Which starting me thinking of the 10,000 things I didn’t get to yesterday, and the thousand things I don’t even know to worry about because I completely lost track of them.
My name is Cathy. I am an overachiever.
I think I’ll make some coffee and start a list of things to do about it.
30 Days of Grace