i'm caught in pedestrianism's cruel clutch, a clutch that smells of bread sticks from the olive garden. hot with "nights in rodanthe" fever: trying to go to bed before the "two and a half men" reruns segue to cutlery informercials and then outdoor fishing; trying to wake before final jeopardy.
my cell phone is set with three alarms. 9 a.m., 9:30 a.m., 9:45 a.m.
my bladder? it could go off at any time.
part of my new bedtime ritual involves a 70 second keg stand over the water faucet. when, finally, my bladder is distended like a water balloon, locked and loaded, i go to bed confident that physically i will not be able to oversleep with that sloshy mess waiting to happen.
this morning around 6 a.m., i had a dream that i flooded the bed.
i woke up gasping. it was just a dream. still, i had to detonate early.