Sounds easy. What's not to like about that idea.
Here's the scenario I picture in my head:
It's 6 a.m., a stream of sun comes through my window and shines brilliantly onto my face which is sleeping peacefully atop a feather pillow with satin case. I awaken easily; feeling thoroughly rested. When I turn to my bedside table it is free of all clutter save for an elegant leather-bound book, a gorgeously carved writing stylus and perhaps a freshly brewed cup of steaming coffee. I take a few minutes to straighten my 100% organic cotton pyjamas, which are a lovely set, in a pattern of pink and green paisley. Then I spend some alone time jotting down a few positive thoughts for my day. A few things that made me happy yesterday. I am grateful for so many things, if I do not will myself to stop writing, the day will surely escape me. I walk downstairs and greet my family who are waiting patiently to break their fast.
Here's the reality:
The alarm sounds at 6am, suddenly my world is jostled into consciencenous while Don makes his way to my side of the bed for our morning cuddle. I am barely coherent....
As I become at least aware that there is life, I unclamp my jaw, for I have been clenching all night. My fingers and arms are so completely numb, I can barely straighten my flannel Eeyore pajamas which are twisted around me like a straight jacket. (Forget holding a beautifully carved writing stylus.) Some mutation occurs in those eight hours of sleep. I enter my bed as a vibrant and healthy 45 year old, and arise as an old lady with pillow case wrinkles, who can barely unfold herself or walk across the bedroom. I'm freezing, my socks have come off at some point during the night. Still there is no room for lights...it must remain dark. My eyes will likely never adjust
Once arisen, the daily greeting that actually happens is the assessment of how well each of us has slept. I have to ask Don how he slept. Don, however, can surmise based on my hair. If he says: Well, good morning Professor, I simply nod for my hair tells it all. What starts as some basic lopey curls at 10 pm becomes this raging, untamable head of frizz by six a.m. I could actually store my leatherbound gratitude journal within it and no one would ever know. If, on the other hand, Don looks at me with a worried eye and simply clucks his tongue, my hair must look exactly as it did upon retiring eight hours prior and thus it was not a good night of sleep~he doesn't even have to ask.
Pity the 12 year old who is already awake and waiting, waiting, waiting for someone to listen to her morning onslaught of questions and observations. Pity the mom who must feign interest and mumble some answers. All that is missing is the cold-cream and curlers.
Perhaps my gratitude journal might be better served if written before bed, while I am still alert, coherent and lucid. Without question I am more thankful at night.
