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Five-Minutes-More

I don't get it, I just don't.

For the whole world to know, yes, I am somewhat a paranoid workaholic who can't leave work alone even when I am home. Oh, wait. Work IS at home. But that is the problem.

So, being a workaholic should mean that I am the kind who breezily wakes up smiling, with a little jaunt and hop, I skip to the bathroom, brush my teeth, wash my face and then the world opens up to me like a friggin' curtain...the show starts.

But no. Ever since I was young, one of the biggest problems with me is waking up in the morning regardless of what time I go to sleep. I don't know what's wrong with me! I have this stupid five-more-minutes nemesis that I can never beat. This evil nemesis wins EVERY SINGLE TIME! And every morning, it pops its head around and cajoles me with the five-minutes-more routine. I hate it because five minutes never means five minutes. It always means thirty minutes or one whole hour.

I remember being a teenager and being yanked out of bed by my mom. When my grandmother stayed with us, it was her job to wake me up. Nobody wanted to have the job of waking me up because it is one of the toughest jobs in the world. They would rather be raking up dog poo.

My grandmother hated waking me up and I hated her for trying to wake me up. I always felt like she was just being nasty to me for waking me up in the morning....that was before the thought of going to school struck me and I start running around the house getting ready like a frenzied zombie with red eyes, sniffy nose and tussled hair. I ain't pretty in the morning.

So yeah, I don't get it. I am thirty-over years old and I have kids who hates waking up as much as I do. What gives, you up there!?
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