I am not a morning person.
When my alarm goes off in the morning it is a frantic battle to pound it into submission. I’ll do whatever it takes – many times with ruthless, angry force – to stop that incessant beeping. I curse at the world and drag my lifeless body from bed and into the shower in a vain, pointless attempt to wake myself up. Despite my best efforts my eyes remain half open and my movements are slow going as I pour coffee into my “Mornings are Ruff” mug that GAR made for me (it features photos of him and the dogs – he loves bad puns). Generally it takes me a good 45 minutes to really, truly start waking up, at which point I inevitably realize that I’ve been moving too slowly and now I’m going to be late for work. A mad dash to finish up commences and I jump into the car in a cranky mood and already feeling behind.
The same lack of enthusiasm for the morning hours does not apply to my beloved. No, in fact, he’s downright perky in the morning. If I can be so bold I would even say he is too perky. I’ve told you before about his passion for music, despite his inability to get the lyrics right, and most often his chipper morning attitude is expressed through song as well. It is not uncommon for me to be serenaded by all number of musical interludes in the morning, and sometimes he even enhances the songs through the use music, which he provides via guitar, bongos, maracas and even a kazoo. He talks at length about other instruments he would like to add to his collection and, while I do enjoy a nice, melodic lullaby while sipping on a nightcap in the evening, it is these morning jam sessions that I appreciate a little less than I should.
As I am sluggishly stumbling my way through my morning routine I am constantly aware of GAR’s movements … and his melodies. Sometimes they are original ditties he makes up on the spot. Other times they are popular songs, though more often than not he changes their lyrics and turns them into parodies (his favorite morning singing topics include odes to the dogs, songs about my current activities, a brief rundown of what he has planned for the day, and the days of the week, a-la Rebecca Black “Friday” style, though it can, really, be any number of topics that pop into his head that morning). But, while the singing alone would be cute, charming even, if I wasn’t half asleep and grumpy, the hardest part to navigate is the dancing that accompanies his ditties. Ah yes, the dancing. Dancing in front of me as I try to make my way to the bathroom to turn on the shower. Dancing behind me as I brush my teeth. Dancing like Bill Cosby every time the “Weather on the 1’s” music plays on TV. Dancing kick-line style while holding one of the dogs and moving his paws into a matching kick-line formation. And, of course, his signature move – jazz hands – which he uses to end every musical number (often he spins me around or jumps in my path to ensure that I catch the end of said performance). Yes, it is the dancing that most often blocks my path when trying to maneuver through the house during my morning primping.
I guess this is one of the hazards of marrying a wannabe rock star – for every bit of musical genius I enjoy I endure a few hundred mornings of poorly rhymed, halfway executed, jazz hands accompanied, less-than-masterpieces. And, despite my half-open eyelids and surly a.m. demeanor, I enjoy every minute of it … later … you know, after I’ve left the house and I’m driving into work with a full stomach thanks to the eggs GAR cheerfully made for me while performing his rendition of the “scrambled baby chickens” song (or whatever melody he constructed that morning). And when I wake up enough to appreciate how fun it is to live with him it always make me smile and, of course, laugh.
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