Am…musings

It’s 5:57 a.m. as I type these words.

I typically say I am not a morning person, which isn’t technically true. Unlike many other non-morning people, I’m not a total crab-ass in the morning. After taking a little time to wake up, I’m normally in a positive mood and fully functioning (the fact that I’m writing a blog post after waking up 10 minutes ago is proof positive). So as opposed to an anti-morning person, I’ve deduced that I am a lover of sleep … a Dozing Diva, if you will.

As a Dozing Diva, 5:57 a.m. is not a time of day I normally see unless I have an early commitment. Today, I do not. Today, I’m trying a sleep experiment.

At work a few weeks ago, we were chatting about the number of hours of sleep we each prefer and actually get. I had always targeted (and usually hit) 8 hours a night during the week and 9 on the weekend. A co-worker mentioned studies had shown we should get sleep in 1.5-hour increments after the first 3 hours …. so sleeping for a total of 4.5 hours, 6 hours, 7.5 hours or 9 hours. The reason (in non-scientific terms): REM cycles last 1.5 hours and interrupting them is bad and results in feeling less rested.

My love of sleep means I gobble up every article I see regarding sleep tips, recommended hours, etc. and I was shocked I’d never heard that wisdom. That very night, I opted to hear the Wii Fit fitness tip (something I usually skip) and it was about the importance of sleep and sleeping in 1.5-hour increments. I figured it was fate and that I needed to test the concept.

Nine hours during the week seemed like a stretch so I’ve been shooting for 7.5 hours. One big change I’ve made is not sleeping around the snooze … I’ve always known that was bad, but now I have a basis for it. Instead, I’m forcing myself to slowly wake up using one or two snoozes.

It’s been a few weeks, and I think I feel a little better. I also feel validated by one cool thing I’ve noticed … on weekends, when I don’t set the alarm I wake up exactly at the 1.5-hour increment (i.e. my typical 9 hours on the weekend). Today, it was exactly at 6 hours. It’s rare that I wake up before the alarm during the week and normally, I’d go back to sleep. Unfortunately, the alarm was set for only an hour later so I decided to really test the theory. I normally crash in the afternoons/evenings after less than 8 hours, but now I wonder if it was actually because I hadn’t been sleeping in magic increment. I’ll keep you posted.

I have always believed the first kiss (or maybe the second … if it hasn’t gone well, but I’m feeling optimistic) has the power to make or break a budding relationship.

This article proves me right in a biochemical sort of way. Plus, I can’t tell you how much I love that the following phrase was uttered in National Geographic … Men in general seem to like wet kisses with more “tongue action.” Makes me giggle everytime I read it!

I just read this touching, inspiring love story by Lynn Harris in my March Glamour. About a couple who found love despite their autism, it’s the stuff sappy Valentine’s posts are made of, but that’s not what this is.

Blissful love stories (and Hallmark commercials) have the power to make me weep, but this story induced tears of sadness and a bit of rage. It was this section exploring the difficulty one of them faced growing up:

Even as Lindsey’s speech caught up and her talent for playing piano emerged, she developed habits typical of autistics: staring for hours at the fibers of a carpet, for example, or performing soothing rituals like stepping on cracks in the sidewalk. Classmates teased her mercilessly, and she’d come home with kick me signs on her back. Real friendship seemed painfully out of reach for the eccentric, awkward girl who came across as blunt. In high school, when another student asked Lindsey what she thought of her new makeup, Lindsey recalls, “I told her it looked fake. She became silent, and I knew I had blown it.” Depressed, Lindsey burned herself with a curling iron and cut her arms with safety pins, hiding her injuries with sweatshirts.

I don’t have kids, but I imagine there’s a tendency to think my child would never treat another child badly. But kids can be mean – likely because they don’t know better or because they themselves want to fit in and going along with the crowd seems the easiest route.

Please parents, teach your children kindness, humility and most importantly – empathy. Different isn’t wrong, and everyone needs love and support, particularly people – like Lindsey – for whom life is challenging enough. And it has occurred to me that maybe this is a fitting Valentine’s post … use this day that celebrates love as an excuse to have a conversation with your kids about compassion.

I am a firm believer in the following quote: “Treat a man as he is, and he will remain as he is. Treat a man as he could be, and he will become what he should be.” Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Here is an amazing (and tear-inducing) story of “as he could be” treatment. I hope it inspires you.

I stopped to get gas on my way back from a meeting this morning. $33.82!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Yipee!!!!!!! I bought my gas-guzzler in early, early 2005 … before gas went completely haywire. Until recently my damage at the pump was around $65. Today was the first time I’ve filled up since prices plummeted. Fabulous!

I celebrated with a trip through Mickey D’s for … an iced tea. Yes, it still has caffeine, but it was not a Diet Coke. I can’t remember the last time I went to McDonald’s and didn’t get a Diet Coke. And I switched to water when I got to the office … Mission Diet Coke-Free: Accomplished (at least for today).

Sure … there are the obvious reasons why I’d like a man in my life … opening jars, reaching things on high shelves, cleaning gutters*, among other things I won’t mention here because one of my co-workers cringed when I just mentioned kissing in the Match-Herb post.

Sopping up my basement last weekend in the wake of Ike’s remnants – and in the process, assembling a wet/dry vac all by myself – got me thinking along these lines. It also reminded me of the thing that makes me feel most alone in my aloneness … folding sheets.

In my family of three, two of us always folded sheets together. While I’m pretty independent and, as I’ve mentioned before, subscribe to the belief that it will happen when it’s meant to, not having someone here to help me fold sheets makes me … just plain lonely.

*P.S. Thanks to Dad-Herb for cleaning my gutters before the deluge.

My Birthday-Week Extravaganza will conclude with a neighborhood party tomorrow night. One of my neighbors/friends, Matt, and I share the same birthday, as does another friend of his. We’re having a luau courtesy of the neighbor’s girlfriend, Nora.

A few weeks ago I made Jell-O-shots for a company kickball practice on a Friday at noon (If I haven’t mentioned it yet, I love my job!) I’d never made Jell-O shots and turned to trusty Google for a recipe.

In the process, I found MyScienceProject.com. I LOVE this site! In addition to revealing how to concoct the best Jell-O shot and the critical intricacies of nailing Jell-O to a wall, this site also explores the ultimate beer cozy. A Rice-Krispie-Treat cozy was tested … and fared well for those wondering.

I’m doing a repeat performance of Island Pineapple and Captain Morgan Jell-O shots for the luau – they certainly are a fitting combo for the tropical theme and taste-tested well at kickball practice.

Honestly, I didn’t even find this particular recipe on MyScienceProject.com, but did find the information the site shared useful and … most importantly … hilarious.

Of course, you may want to stop scrolling on the home page before reaching the very last experiment – hmmmm?

On this day, during this hour, 37 years ago, I was born – on a Friday the 13^th no less.

I subscribe to the (clichéd, I know) belief that “you’re as old as you think you are.” Also, I don’t feel (or look, thank you very much) old. Yet I’ve been dreading this day for the past few weeks.

Being dismayed over 40 or 50 seems common, but who dreads 37? Me! I also hated 26 and 34.

Why not 25, 30 or 35?

The span from birth to 25 equaled youth to me. At 26, I was on the other side (not old, mind you, but I don’t think you can claim youthfulness after 25).

I approached, was and passed 30 with little anxiety … I think 26 just did me in. I also loved my job at 29, but was laid off and living at home for 30 and 31. I must have instinctively known dwelling on those ages, while jobless and sponging off mommy and daddy, would have caused me to curl up in a ball and likely remain there to this day.

I found another great job and bought a house by 34, but had a bit of a semi-midlife crisis – piercing my nose. At the time, I thought I’d finally gotten the nerve to do something I’d wanted to do for most of my life … my second-grade friend Chowdry Pinnameneni’s mom and her beautiful diamond stud made a big impression on me at 7. Later, taking an honest lens to the since-removed nose ring, I believe I may have been out to prove I was still young enough to pull it off.

And why the dread over 37? Partly, it’s because I believe I can no longer say I’m in my mid-30s. Also, I’m two years past 35 and blazing toward 40. The age itself doesn’t bother me so much … it’s that I’ve never been married and don’t have kids. I know biologically there’s still time for kids (Cheryl Tiegs had twins at 52) or I could adopt, but I’m not sure being an older mom is the right decision for me. And in my mind, 37 treads dangerously close to old-maid territory.

Of course, for those age-related crises, there’s my other stand-by cliché … “it’ll happen when it’s meant to be.” And when it comes to birthdays – dreaded or otherwise … the cliché, “it’s better than the alternative,” can’t be argued with.

PS All age-related judgments are my beliefs about ME.  Please don’t take offense or feel I’m commenting on anyone other than myself.

With gas prices sickeningly high who isn’t gobbling up all those helpful fuel-reduction tips (except that one about driving under 60 mph – something I’m simply not capable of)?  My gas-related hint isn’t really going to save you much cash, but it truly was a revelation for me yesterday. 

I was driving a rental (an incredibly posh Lincoln MKX), with my mom (aka Shar) riding shotgun because our cars were in the shop.  As we pull in to top off the gas tank, I ask Shar if she can see the car’s gas door in the mirror on her side.  Shar says nonchalantly, “Can’t you look at the fuel gauge?” 

What?  I look at the dash and there it is  … a cute little arrow next to the fuel pump symbol directing me to the driver’s side gas door.  And no, this is not some snazzy feature on the Lincoln according to Shar – there’s apparently one on most vehicle gas gauges and I’ve never seen it.

“Shut the F up,” I say to Shar … about four or five times just for good measure.

One reason I’m amazed by this is because I’ve had to get back in, restart and move plenty of rentals or borrowed vehicles to be on the right side for the pump.  It’s always annoyed me.  Also, I will mark my 21^st anniversary of driving in about a week (as a side note, my dad had to teach me because Shar and I almost threw down on a few occasions over her passenger-seat driving).  I’d think she – or someone else – might have shared that helpful hint with me in all of those years.

So … I’m curious to know if I’m the only one who didn’t know.