Some people, they are morning people. I am not one of them. Not because I hate mornings–because I don’t, quite the contrary really. I love mornings, but I love them most of all spent lingering in bed. Usually, I roll over. A lot. I do a lot of rolling over when I know I should probably be getting up. While I am rolling over I do a quick inventory in my head of exactly how late I can be to any given event before I am going to be “extraordinarily late” and in the case that I am going to be that tardy, I start coming up with an excuse. Upon dealing with this in my head I go immediately back to sleep because I am obviously not yet capable of dealing with the up and coming issues of Monday, Tuesday, Friday or whatever day. Life. My life. Productivity. Stuff that is not lying around. I do this, the waking up rolling-over non coherent dance, 3-4 times before I even fathom actually getting out of bed. Then I roll over one last time, kick my right leg out of the blankets until the cool morning air slowly invades the comfort of my makeshift cocoon. I move around a bit. I wiggle my toes. I stretch my body until it is long and loose like warm honey poured from a jar. But I am still in bed. Perhaps I get up. Probably not. Usually, this is the point where I see if I can call and get out of whatever it is I am suppose to do for the day. If I can, I get on the phone and blame my: neck, brain, life, mother, brother, friends or nature. Then I spend the rest of the day in pajamas doing less-than-nothing.