Happened again! In bed too late, overslept in the a.m.,
missed work (some, not all, but groggily performed). I hate it when I’m
snagged. Can’t help it. Powerless when it hits me. I can be in the same spot at
other times with no ill effects. Good night’s sleep. Alert on arising. Mindless
of time at work, to the point of being late for dinner. I track each occurrence
with a pseudo-scientific star rating. Five, “Beware.” Threes, no problem. This brainy
system keeps me sane, an alert employee, happily married—most of the time. Until
it hits. No one to blame. Just me, hoping not to get caught. I know what I like
and sniff around temptation, drawn to it like a . . . . brain’s fogged, make up
your own simile. Still it’s pretty rare, all things considered. When I creep
into the high fours, I know I’m in grave danger (loss of sleep, defective
production, “Don’t bother me, Honey”). I even pray—last resort of a half-baked
believer: “Not a five! Thank you, God or god or Krishna,” whoever’s protecting
me on temptation’s path. Close call. Let me be honest with you, though, not
even prayer can help me when I’m in the throes of a can’t-put-it-down novel.
(c) 2017 by Alfred J. Garrotto
All rights reserved
All rights reserved
