Last night I decided to put my proverbial foot down and put my literal feet up earlier at night. By a more reasonable hour I was half asleep, only to be jostled awake again around midnight by the sound of the boys' loud conversation. They're supposed to be in their own rooms at night, but somehow one always migrates to the other's room where they chit-chat the night away until sleep kidnaps them against their wills.
Irritably I put up with the loud talking for a little while; I don't really know how long because time takes on different characteristics in the middle of the night, doesn't it? Finally, wide awake now, I sat halfway up and yelled: "BOYS!!!!"
The poor husband, whom I assumed would be as awake as I, jolted upright, violently wrested from his peaceful dreams. "huh? what?"
"oops. I'm so sorry!" I whispered. "My bad. hee hee. Just assumed the boys were keeping you up, too. sorry, sorry."
I think perhaps eventually I drifted back off, but the thing I most poignantly remember was my sleep again being interrupted by the sound of the cat hacking up a hairball, always pleasant around 3 am or so.
If memory properly serves, I believe she had similar woes around 3:26 am.
I finally arose at 6 am to get my ass kicked by humidity on my 10-mile tempo run, during which I failed miserably to keep my training program-prescribed pace. "Why does my training book think I can do this," I kept wondering. I'm so good at positive thinking during running...
It's going to be a great day. Really it is.