Before I begin, I think it’s important that I disambiguate my chosen title.  (Note:  I could have used the word “clarify,” but who knows when another opportunity might arise to use a five-syllable word.)  The title is not meant to refer to William Perry, the Chicago Bears defensive tackle who was so big that he was nicknamed the “Refrigerator.”  I don’t even know why I recall this piece of sports trivia.  I am not a big fan of football.  The thrill of watching grown men pile on top of one another every few seconds completely escapes me.  But I digress.

No, the refrigerator I’m referring to is an actual refrigerator, the one that occupies 25 cubic feet of space in my kitchen.  It’s not new, but an appliance we inherited from the prior owner of the condo apartment in which we now live.  No need to replace it, we thought.  It’s in fine working order.  Except for one small detail.  An external piece of plastic that simply won’t stay in its intended place!

Are you familiar with the base grill? You might know it as the toe kick plate.  Or more likely, you don’t know it at all.  It’s one of those things in life that simply goes unnoticed because it resides where the refrigerator meets the floor.  So, you don’t see it unless you happen to have a seat at the breakfast table which affords a bird’s eye view of the toe kick laying on its side, revealing all the horrors it has heretofore been concealing.
Its mechanical purpose is to allow air to flow into the machine compartment to cool the condenser.  But of more significance to a domestic goddess, it’s the part that hides all the dust, debris, and missing objects that have found their way under the refrigerator never to be seen again.  Unless the toe kick decides to fall.

I am a proud do-it-yourself person who dabbles in fixing toilet bowl flappers, assembling Ikea furniture
with no parts left over, and performing successful operations on hard-to-open bottle caps.  So, it’s no wonder that one morning, about a week ago, on a caffeine high and tired of staring at the dust, I decided it was time to tackle the toe kick! I even went so far as to purchase a roll of duct tape just in case it needed more encouragement to remain in place.

That was a week ago.  Yet, this morning still finds me sitting at my little breakfast table staring at the repulsive mess behind the fallen toe kick.  So, why has the repair queen been procrastinating?  Fellow octogenarians – when was the last time you voluntarily lowered yourselves to the floor with no thought to how in hell you were going to ever stand again without summoning EMS?

What comes to mind in the current stand-off between me and the refrigerator is the phrase “reality bites.”  This refers to those moments “when the harsh pains and experiences of life jolt you out of your fantasy.”  Unfortunately, at this stage of the journey “harsh pains and experiences” are not mere metaphors.

So, having experienced the harsh pains of lowering and raising stiff joints to the floor and back, why am I even contemplating fixing that damn toe kick on my own? The answer is clear.  My fantasy is way younger than my knees!

It’s hard to admit that you can no longer do what used to be easy to accomplish.  And that you should have the phone number of a handyman on speed dial.  But common sense does not always prevail, and today might just be the day when I decide to throw caution to the wind and tackle the refrigerator.

​So please don’t be alarmed if you see the neighborhood fire truck parked in front of my building.  The humiliation of needing to be hoisted from the floor may very well be offset by yet another successful DIY repair!

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​I hate morning people! Oh, you know who you are.  You’re the ones who wake up happy with a smile on your face after achieving a restful, restorative sleep, never waking even once to pee.  You’re the ones who can pop out of bed at 5:00 am and rush off to the gym, exercise, shower, change, grab some breakfast and be at your desk by 8:00 am talking to your counterparts overseas.  Or, maybe you stay home, make some coffee, and report to your computer to continue writing the great American novel before you’re disturbed when the slackers decide it’s time to get out of bed.

All my life I have struggled with morning.  Even as a teen, when a sound sleep was a nightly occurrence instead of an occasional blessing, morning came as a shock.  My own mother, bless her heart, refused to come near me.  To wake me for school she would shout out from the kitchen, which was a considerable distance from my bedroom, so as not to have to deal with my grumpy demeanor.

As a single mom with AM responsibilities, I was on my own.  Frankly, I don’t know how I did it.  Two kids to get ready for school, lunches to pack, a dog to walk, and out the door by 8:15 to walk them to P.S. whatever,  and get myself to my job.  I’m sure my lack of enthusiasm for that particular time of day was instrumental in their GPA failing to get them admitted to Harvard.  That, and feeding them Spaghetti-Os for dinner.

I read somewhere that morning people are referred to as larks and night people as owls.  The reason for this should be obvious to any owl ever awakened by the cloying sounds of those pitifully cheerful early birds.

I used to be an owl.  I relished the evenings after the kids went to sleep and the house grew quiet.  This was “me” time before there was such a thing as me time.  A glass of wine, a good book, and a comfortable chair was like being on vacation.  Would you believe I once could stay awake for the entire “Tonight” show as well as “Saturday Night Live?”

Today I’m afraid that I’m no longer a night person.  And I’m still no friend of the morning.  I have a few good hours in the middle of the day, but there’s only so much productivity a person can cram into the space between 11:00 and 1:00!

As old as I am, is there still a chance I can learn to delight in the morning?  My alarm clock has become a relic since I can’t seem to sleep past 7:30 anyway.  And rarely must I rush off to anywhere.  Even the dog likes to sleep in. So, as long as I’m awake, should I at least try to be happy?  Can I influence my inherent circadian rhythm?

The answer is a resounding NO!  An article I read recently says: “If you’re just not a morning person, science says you may never be.  Morning people and night owls are born that way.  It’s time to accept that.  Research has been gaining insight on that question.  It turns out our internal clocks are influenced by genes and are incredibly difficult to change.  If you’re just not a morning person, it’s likely you’ll never be, at least until the effects of aging kick in.”

Well, the effects of aging have kicked in.  I do wake up early on a daily basis, but science is reassuring me I don’t have to like it!

So, so much for smiley faces and cheerful chatter at 8:00 am.  I shall continue to move through my morning routine in utter silence with the corners of my mouth turned downward.  I will continue to grunt at my husband as he patters into the kitchen and buries his head behind the New York Times.  After years of marriage, he has learned not to speak to me before I’ve had my second cup of coffee, and I am grateful that the New York Times has never turned into a tabloid.

And thanks to that article, I can apply my self-improvement energies elsewhere where they might have a better chance of succeeding.  Like, for example, flossing.

Although I’ll never be one of those morning people, there is a compelling reason to greet the daylight with gratitude.  It’s a new day, and guess what? I’m still here!
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