When I woke up today, the light seeping in beneath the blinds on the bedroom window was a lighter shade of gray than usual. I looked nervously at my phone to see what time it was, then panicked to learn it was 6:47. My alarm is set during the week for 6:15 and my routine between then and going to work is pretty much set. I hate being late. Punctuality is next to godliness, I always say.

It took a minute to realize that it’s Saturday, and after the panic dissipated I felt glad to have slept past my usual wake-up time. Man, that’s luxury, I thought.

For much of my life, sleep was my friend. It welcomed me like a gracious host who then didn’t want me to go home at the end of the party. I tried as a kid using sleep to my advantage where going to church was concerned but it never worked. I hoped for “Oh, just leave him” but only ever got “Get dressed and be in the car in five minutes.” And it was no point trying to sleep in church because in the Church of Christ you’re standing up and sitting down through the whole thing. I wonder if people in the Church of Christ have better-developed calves than people in other denominations, what with all the up-and-down.

But there came a point where sleep stopped caring for me so much and moved on to a new circle of friends. I think that’s not uncommon once you reach a certain age but it was an unpleasant experience nonetheless. I don’t care how much sleep other people get, only that I get mine.

Eventually a physician enlightened me as to the medicinal methods for sleep-friendship, and since then I do all right unless my mind is whirling too fast with stuff, in which case the pills aren’t any more effective than a glass of warm milk. Then again, I don’t know if warm milk is effective for sleep-inducement because I’ve never tried it, and because I only take my milk ice-cold the thought of warm milk makes my throat tighten.

Sleeping until the alarm goes off during the week, and sleeping later than that on weekends — man, that’s luxury.