This is an installment of Suzette Andujar’s column series, “As I Was Saying.”
Dearest snooze button,
The last time we spoke, I hit you with the force of a Jedi. I know you were only trying to help; however, I pen this letter to say that I’m quite tired of you and your wake-up calls.
It starts off innocently enough and really, it’s the only time I’m good at math: set alarm 45 minutes early, press snooze every nine minutes four times, then one extra time to make me feel like I got a bonus snooze. First ring, you sing your little music, personally selected to sound like a robot rapping to techno music, and I’m jarred awake. I tap on the screen placed strategically on the nightstand by my head, and happily doze off knowing I have at least four more taps before I have to “officially” wake up. One second later however, you choose to sing again. It doesn’t affect me so much the second time because I’m pretty sure I hit you in my sleep.
I’m now two snoozes away from having to wake up for good. Why do you mess with my sleep pattern? Don’t you know the last few snoozes are meant for contemplation? I’m in a state of “I’m kinda awake, but still most definitely asleep.” It is in that time I think about where I’m going that day, what I’m wearing, and most importantly, what I’m going to eat. Do you not care about the choices I have to make before I start my day? No, you don’t, because you sing again.
It’s in this moment I realize that I have to stop snoozing my way into the day. I think there are studies that say people who press the snooze button have shorter life spans. I’m not making this up, Snoozie. It’s true. I could literally die if I keep depending on you and quite frankly, I want to live.
But really, who are we kidding? I’ve made this realization before. I remember my last letter, aggressively assaulting what you do for a living and declaring my intentions to wake upon first hearing the alarm. I was so determined, yet so naive. That first morning of trying it out, I hit the alarm clock, expecting it to sound again in nine minutes…but it did not. No. I woke up late. The day had already begun and I found myself rushing, looking haggard: hair in disarray, one end higher than the other, different colored socks, incompatible color palettes for my outfit. To the friends and family I saw that day, I nervously explained that I was trying a new fashion trend called Mismatch Chic. They just smirked-smirked! That sly, half smile that said “yeah right”.
So I’ve resigned myself to be stuck with you, Snoozie. You, who pay no regard to the delicacy of my constitution. I look forward to your energetic robot rap every day, yet dread it all at once. I’m eternally bound to a sad sequence of submissive stupefaction.
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