6:30AM

I spent most of the winter setting my alarm for 5:30AM, rolling over angry, huffing, puffing, and going right back to sleep.  At 6:30 I'd wake up having to pee, thinking, "Oh, I should get up and pee and walk the dogs.  Then I should have some iced coffee.  Then I should write.  Then I should go to the gym.  Then I should eat breakfast and put on a tie. The New York Times on my Kindle, the front page section and the arts section, if I have time the business section--if not I'll read it at work. Then I should go to work where I'll change TV with the stroke of my inspirational and feminine genius."

Then I'd go right back to sleep, without peeing.  An angry sleep.  Dreams that I'm a nuclear power plant bubbling over.

At 7:30, with a bladder scowling at me like Mon'Ique winning an Oscar, I'd push the dogs off the bed, listen to them fight with each other, run to the bathroom, pee, weigh myself, roll my eyes and go get coffee.  I'd make a mental list of what I had time for.  A short dog walk.  A short shower (I like 20 minute showers, minimum, calms me, makes me feel pretty yet prepared).  A Diet Amp with the healing powers of Taurine and Guarana.  A Kashi Bar (I prefer cup-measured cereal, iced coffee, iced tea, a banana, and a teaspoon of frozen flaxseeds, and cup-measured fat free lactaid). I run the dogs to their day care lesbians as fast as I can.  I go to work.  I feel lame.  I feel unaccomplished.  I feel fat.  I feel ugly.  I feel sleepy.  I resolve tomorrow to get up at 5:30.

And it went on and on.  January.  Then February.  Then March...then today I thought, "What if I just get up at 6:30.  What if I just do that, with a nice long dog walk and cut out everything else?  Won't that be nice and Zen.  Just relax my to-do list a little.  Cut myself some slack.  Won't I be so adult?  I'll get to work early, I'll put on sunscreen, I'll hum at the cartoon birds...

It was so nice.  Then, I locked my keys inside the house. 

So adult. So responsible.  So thin-like.  So effective...So pretty, yet prepared, right?  Wrong.  What a mess I am.

When I got in (thank you Lesbians!) I had a brief breakdown.  How can I be 31 and still lose my keys?  Why can't i just get my shit together?  Why can't I get up at a reasonable hour and not have drama?  Why is Meredith Viera wearing that?  Why is Ralph barfing one of my earplugs?

And then, I looked down at my night stand.  It was O, The Oprah magazine.  And there she was, smiling, shimmering, so peaceful, so powerful, so Zen in all Pink and hoop jewelry, and it hit me.  This magazine of living effectively has ruined my life because it's un-atainable to be that good.  I threw it at my mirror.  I ripped the pages out.  I fed them to Ralph and Cricket.  I lit the binding with a match.  My eyes grew beady.  The dogs cackled. I deleted my Oprah Show Tivos.  I didn't even save the post Oscar special.  I ran around the house with scissors cutting up my vision board and The Secret DVD cover.  I unbookmarked the "Would You Like to Be on The Oprah Show" link from my mozilla firefox and I played The color purple musical soundtrack backwards on slow motion while reciting ACDC lyrics forwards.  I wrote a simple note to Dr Oz that said FUCK U and put it in an envelope with a stamp, my return address and just his name on it.  I dropped it in the bin, kissed the dogs and went to work.

I'm going to try 6:30AM again tomorrow.  Wish me luck.