Anatomy of a Monster Sleep

12:28 AM. OK, I reason, I can get 8 solid hours, wake up at 8:30 refreshed and ready to go; I can eat breakfast, run errands, go to the gym, make lunch, and still have leftover time for productivity. Groggy and highly anticipating my overdue lapse into the realm of the subconscious, I climb stiffly into bed, annoyed at the disproportionate area of the mattress my spouse has claimed. Her cacophonous, throaty sleep noises are no picnic either. While trying to get comfortable I “accidentally” jostle her; a temporary solution. I remember to set the alarm. And then, as is often the case, I don’t drift off to sleep but something closer to being slammed into it, abruptly and violently. In minutes, three hours dissipate.

3:33 AM. My reproductive efforts arrives in the bedroom equipped with her binky, reserve binky, Lamby, pillow pet, and water sippy cup. Uninvited, she clambers on to the bed, arranges her belongings, and makes herself comfortable – as if that was exactly what was supposed to happen. This is a damn outrage. My condensed sleeping area is now reduced to the size of a Kit Kat. And not the full thing, but a single bar. Mmm, Kit Kat… It occurs to me that I’m very hungry.

3:35 AM. Standing in front of the refrigerator in a zombie-like half-state of consciousness, I inhale a cheese stick in two bites, cram something else in my mouth (it was in a bag, further details are murky), and then chug down some Ocean Spray cran-something or other juice from the bottle. God I was thirsty. I then squeeze back into my estrogen steeped bed. Move the fuck over, Lamby.

6:30 AM. Roused slightly as wife and child leave for the day. Suddenly the queen-sized opens up fully, proffering a royal, luxurious expanse of space on which to feast. Fantastic! I stretch out, reposition the comforter, and greedily attack some more wonderful sleep; I gobble that sleep up.

8:32 AM. Alarm goes off. Oh damn it. Mired in a potent, inescapable vortex of slumber – and having good dreams to boot – the thought of waking up seems like the absolute worst thing in the history of the universe. What do you want for more sleep? Money? My wife? My soul? It’s yours! I thump the snooze button with perhaps more urgency than the situation calls for. Just a couple more minutes.

8:41 AM. Alarm goes off. I should get up. REM stage 3 vociferously commands another whack of the snooze. Who am I to disobey REM stage 3?

8:50 AM. I think to myself that I really ought to get up. I’ve had enough sleep, and there’s still time to salvage a productive morning. Just get out there, old fella. Throw off the blanket and seize the day! But that’s not what I do. What I do is, I wrench an eye halfway open and reset my alarm to 9:55. Work pants can stay un-hemmed for another day. How often do you get to splurge on some delicious, deeply nourishing sleep? I can still get to the gym. Justifying… Sacrificing the greater good for immediate pleasure… sleep is like being drunk.

9:55 AM. Alarm goes off. It must be getting pretty annoyed with me at this point. What the hell’s gotten into him? It’s probably thinking. What an asshole, this guy. I need to get up. Sublime, narcotic grip of sleep is unyielding. Ok, so I’ll skip cardio. Another half hour of sleep. But that’s it. No more.

11:15 AM. Surface from sleep, glance at the time. Wow, I just vaulted over most of the morning… almost 11 hours…. what a sleep! Feelings of restfulness and tranquility permeate my being. That was a whale of a sleep. Ready to get up and take on the world; I feel unbelievable. I can do anything! And if I hurry, there’s still time for an abbreviated workout. Before clambering out from the pleasant amniotic warmth of the comforter, however, I pause for a beat, eyes closed, relishing the moment and...

…it’s now 12:49 PM. Oh my god, it’s too late! I’ve slept well over 12 hours, more than half of an entire day. I’ve gorged on sleep.
Wasted morning or time well spent? I'm voting for the latter. To each his own.