It doesn't happen very often, but it happened this morning.
Both my wife and I slept in.
We slept past the 5:30 alarm.
Past the 6:00 reset.
Finally getting out of bed at 7.
We hustled around the apartment like an old-radio-show couple from the 1940s, like Fibber McGee and Molly, with things falling out of the closet, with coffee being sipped while teeth were being brushed, running out of the house while hopping on one foot while tying the shoe of the other.
I finally got to my desk just before nine--well before the office wakes up. Only now are people trickling in like cockroaches after the lights go out for the night.
Maybe it's the impending dog days of summer that have made me lethargic. Maybe it was being on-call for work and an incessant pelting of work emails all weekend long. Maybe it's the sump of humidity and the drumbeat of rain that have settled over New York. Or maybe on this crappy mid-summer's day, I'd just rather stay home and watch Andy Griffith and Leave it to Beaver on TV, assuming they play things like that nowadays, which I'm almost sure they don't.
But like Robert Frost wrote so many years ago, "I have promises to keep/And miles to go before I sleep."
So I hustled into a black Chevy Suburban with a cracked front windshield and bounced through the cratered asphalt to the far west side.
To an empty office.
Maybe I'll sleep in again tomorrow.