I may have mentioned, Gentle Reader, that I am not a morning person.
My feelings are that the early hours of the day are a plot against humanity, in an attempt to turn us all into either docile cattle, ripe for the slaughter, or alternatively, into perky, happy cheerleader types–the kind of human that at zero five-thirty is so happy and friendly that, before your first coffee of the day you’d joyfully run them over with a giant Tonka truck.
Pre-job, my body clock runs closer to a burned-out 1950s Vegas lounge singer. For me, early to bed is 2 AM. Early to rise is before 11.
So, according to Benjie Franklin, I’ll never be healthy, wealthy, or wise.
Sounds about right.
In that ridiculously early vein, imagine my abject terror when I discovered my start time, three agonizing days a week is 9:00–in the morning (!?!). And we have a staff meeting every Saturday morning at the spine-chilling hour of 8:30.
*In lieu of flowers I ask that a fund be set up in my name supplying me hourly with the biggest, espresso-iest Starbucks they make.
You’ll then find me in the restroom; you don’t buy Starbucks, you rent it.
I’m not sure about my sleeping habits as a baby, but even in elementary school I was not a morning person, and never got better. Is there honestly a better feeling than those stolen moments all snuggly and warm, wrapped in blankets and pushing pause on your day for a smidge?
I’d hide from the world for so long, eventually Mom would send in my dad, who had a patented tactic that was 100% successful, every time.
In one parentally peeved, military-trained move, he’d yank my bedspread, blanket, and top sheet off my formally cozy bed, and speak sternly to me. It takes no time to wake up when one is laying, blanket-less, on a rapidly cooling mattress.
When I’ve had to rise early, it always involved complicated math, “If I don’t eat breakfast, I can sleep another eleven point sixteen minutes…if I wear slip-on shoes, I’ve got forty-five seconds.”
Math is not snuggly.
In college, I was still living at home. One morning, there was no maternal/paternal team to get my petulant butt out of bed. Dad was at work, and Mom had left for an all-day shopping trip with her best friend.
They had strongly cautioned me that there would be no wake-up service—I would be on my own.
So, I went to bed, secure in the knowledge that as an adult, I was fully capable of getting myself to my first class on time. Class started at 9:30.
I walked in at 10:43.
As you can imagine, Gentle Reader, adjusting my schedule to my new job has been something of a trial.
Last week, on my way in to work early (!?!), a passing encounter colored the entire day.
At a light, I was dancing-ish along to the radio playing “You dropped a bomb on me” by the Gap Band when Diana Ross came on and began informing listeners, “I’m coming out”. Giddy with lack of sleep, I continued dancing, and began to sing along.
There was a white pickup truck stopped next to me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw it move up a few feet. I glanced over.
There was the driver, dancing and singing, “I’m coming out”!
Until the light changed, we had a dance party better than American Bandstand and Soul Train combined. It was a serendipitous feeling of pure delight that brightened my entire day.
Me: in a station wagon, dancing, badly. You: in a white pickup, dancing and making me smile for hours.
Thanks for your time.
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