Nine in the Afternoon


People say that you shouldn't judge something until you've tried it. This is generally stupid, since I already know that I hate refried beans and working at McDonald's and running marathons and green eggs. I don't need to try them. I don't want to. If it makes you feel better, though, I tried them in my head, using my imagination.

What have I really tried? Mornings. According to an internet calculator, I've tried them more than 8,000 times. I DO NOT LIKE MORNINGS. And I would like to stop trying them now.

I did not like them when I was a child and my mother would pull fiercely on the shades, laughing as the sound of the THWAP SNAP CRASH muffled the sound of my screams.

I did not like them in the summers when my mom would wake me up by dropping the cats on my face, laughing as the sound of their mewing muffled the sound of my screams.

I did not like them after I replaced the shades with blinds, when my mother would sing loud and obnoxious songs, smiling as her own voice muffled the sound of my screams.

I did not like them in high school, when my dad would come stand at the doorway and whisper my name over and over while I pretended to sleep. "Rachel. Rachel. Rachel. Rachel. Rachel, it's time to wake up. Rachel. Rachel," he chanted, while I screamed silently.

In fact, the only good thing worth associating with mornings is breakfast. I grew up reading Calvin and Hobbes every day with my bowl of cereal or my Mickey Mouse-shaped pancakes. Even the cat-shaped pancakes that looked just like the Mickey Mouse-shaped pancakes were fantastic. (The snowman-shaped ones were my favorites, though.) And I couldn't make it through the day now without my Pop-Tarts or bagels or chocolate chip pancakes. So mornings, you win. For now. But the minute someone tells me I can have breakfast for dinner, you're done.

Hey, wait a minute . . .