I blearily pry my eyes open, fumble for the clock, and squint at it through crusty, foggy eyes. 10:27.
I'm up, run to the bathroom, throw my clothes on, snatch a Red Bull out of the fridge, and am at the gallery two blocks away before I can think twice. (Those of you who have seen me in the morning may recognize what an earth-shattering accomplishment this is for me, especially since I'm getting over a flu.)
But the gallery is closed.
I stumble confusedly home, open my computer, and discover that it is, in fact, 9am. I go upstairs to look at the traitorous clock and find that it's still reading 10:27. Which, I belatedly realize, is about the time I went to bed last night, after checking that this battery-operated clock was set to the right time.
Well. Oops. At least I'm awake now.
If I could trigger that kind of an adrenaline response every time I woke up, my morning process would actually be a hell of a lot less painful. Unfortunately I'd figure out what I was doing and self-sabotage after about day 3.