My Saturday morning routine.

Since turning 30, I seem to have lost the ability to sleep in on weekends. It's kinda like how your grandma is up, dressed, and ready to go by 6:30 a.m. I somehow feel I should be saddened by this turn of events, but it's actually led to a whole new routine that I have come to look forward to. This is what getting old is like.

After George Michael (the cat, not the singer-songwriter) gently bites me awake around 7:30 (and by "gently" I mean "savagely, with the intent to disfigure"), I check my various internet enterprises and then I make myself a cup of coffee. How did I go almost 30.5 years without realizing a cup of coffee in the morning is possibly the greatest thing in the world? Anyway. Then I sit down to a couple I Love Lucy reruns.

I do, you know. Love Lucy. I love the sharpness of Ricky's suits, I love that Fred's pants are so high that his tie tucks into them, I love that Lucy says "wondaful," I love that a fake nose and wig--possibly a facial mole--can make you unrecognizable to your own spouse. And of course, the gentle misogyny and playful threats of violence (oh how the audience laughs when Lucy says, "I'll be holding the baby when I tell him; he wouldn't hit a woman with a baby!"). I'm not facile enough to think the Cold War years were "the good old days," but I cannot resist the world that this show creates.

Then George Michael draws more blood, and I go upstairs to take a shower.