This is of course every man’s dream; waking up next to a sweaty, bellowing comedian. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

At 6:30 PM on Friday I was nearly face down in my dinner. “I’m going to bed at eight” I murmured to Roscoe. “That’s fine but you are not allowed to get up at 4 AM” he replied. While most people get into a cycle of staying up late and sleeping in later on weekends, my bad habit is going to sleep earlier and getting up before the crack of dawn. This wouldn’t be a problem were it not for my behaviour in the morning. Unfortunately for Roscoe I’m one of those people who bolts upright in bed, punching the air and bellowing “Hello World. Let’s go!”

For Roscoe’s sake I try to keep a lid on it and not immediately start jumping around like a three year old hopped up on sugar, I give it about two hours. However two hours later when you’ve gotten up at four o’clock in the morning is still six o’clock in the morning on a Saturday. Hence why Roscoe prefers to move my grand entrance back one hour.

Our morning routine begins as such, after the magical two hours have passed, I throw open the door to the bedroom and with all of the subtlety of Robin Williams in “Good Morning Vietnam” say “GOOOOOOOOOD Morrrrrrrrrning Roscoooooooe”. Then I launch myself into the air and onto the bed. Sometimes Roscoe is inadvertently head butted by my exuberance at this point. However he doesn’t have a moment to regroup and think “Did my wife really just head butt me in the nose?” because I’m already shooting statements and questions at him rapid fire. “It’s morning! I’m awake. Watch me do downward dog. Do you see how my heels touch the ground? Isn’t that great? I think we should have eggs for breakfast. Can I make you a coffee? We need to go on a walk.”

This is invariably followed by Roscoe uttering very nicely but through gritted teeth “I just. Need. A minute.” I’ll then bounce out of the room, the doorway practically vibrating with the energy I’m giving off and make my way into the kitchen which is located directly behind the bedroom. “AAAAAAAAeeeeeggggs. I love eggs.” I’ll sing, or some other similar song while Roscoe groans into his pillow.

He’ll give up the pretense of getting any more rest after about five minutes of me warbling and crashing pots and pans in the next room but I think he needs those extra moments of quasi slumber. One can understand why he rejoices when I sleep in past seven though.