I have inherited my best friend’s alarm clock.
No one could possibly understand the significance of this event without a love story, so on this lovely Thursday night, I will try.
The first time I met her it didn’t take. The second time I met her we gazed across a parking lot at one another like animals watching you at the zoo — unsure of what to make of this being on the other side of your glass. The third time we met each other it was relief.
We were not alone. We had a shared history so it had been established that we were safe travelling companions.
The alarm clock was the omnipotent intruder.
While we were living together I loathed this auditory abomination. It screamed and shrieked in this god-awful crank of a buzz announcing the arrival of the morning — there is work to be done.
Many a morning I took my anger out on this poor machine, smacking it like a chimpanzee hitting a rock against the hard ground. I wanted to destroy this thing, except bound by the contract of roommates and friendship, I could only one day dream of shoving this alarm clock out a window.
Six years later we are in Target. I need an alarm clock because I’m having a hard time getting out of bed in the morning when I want to. My body thinks 7am is an acceptable hour, my brain feels 5:45 is more like it. Miss Arizona happens to have a multitude of items in her car trunk, one of them being the loathsome troubadour from years before.
It now sits in my living room, so I have to get out of bed to turn it off. It’s still as jarring and as intrusive as I remember. But now I can’t help but smile when I sprint to silence it beause a relic of our friendship is acting as the forklift I so desperately needed.
Not immediately getting back into bed is the next challenge.