How well I remember the beautiful luxury of sleeping in on weekend mornings. How lovely it once felt to curl under the blankets and fade out, sleep a heavy anchor dragging me down into an amniotic sea.

Now as I near 60, I can’t remember the last time I slept in. I can’t remember the last time I wanted to. Even if I’ve had trouble falling asleep or spent a restless night, my feet slap the floor at the usual time. That feeling of guilt you mentioned is probably part of why.

My aging prostate has to take some of the blame. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to sleep 7 or 8 hours without needing to get up a couple times. In a twist of near irony, even if I don’t need to get up, my elderly english pointer does, because his own prostate doesn’t let him sleep the night through.

I miss the deep sleep of youth.