You're here. I miss you.

Dane Peterson Photo Genius

This morning the alarm goes off at 4:30. The little green and blue bits calling me preemptively, my wife nodding her head in approval. Smallish, knee high clean rollies predicted on a possibly inconvenient tide. I lie there. My phone, the hockey puck twenty dollar burner variety pinging and buzzing, I hit stop. There in the dark late summer version of pre-dawn, my mind has already begun its suburban speed-walking-mom jaunt down what should be a lazy path. But the suburban mom doesn't do lazy. That's not how the suburban mom in my brain works. I contemplate the existence of a suburban mom in my brain. Breathing, concentrating on breathing, laying on my back, then on my side. This morning I have no patience for the hour and a half drive for the hour's worth of surf, the time narrowing with every passing forced meditation. Dear lady, would you like a downer? The yellow one...no no, not the red one. The snoozey thing I was sure I'd turned off eviscerates the options. The red one it is. Here in this forced unslumber, already too late to head to the beach, too early to get up and do anything, the woman in the pink track suit with white tennies and a blonde bob scurries about whipping up the compressed time disaster that will be missed opportunities of the future.
I already miss summer.