I’m not a morning person. Not even close. Just ask my husband, or my children. Even the mailman knows I’d never be mistaken for an early riser. I think he’s seen me a grand total of two times since we moved here—groggily shuffling to the mailbox with mismatched shoes and a bad case of bed-head. I must have been expecting something important on the days I managed to drag myself outside early enough to see him zip by in his nifty little car.
I’d bet the house he’s a morning person. Good thing. I’d be about as well-suited for that job as I would for that of a taxi driver (I’m directionally impaired and my time management abilities are patently laughable). Once again, ask my family. They know the score.
In all honesty, I’m relieved to know there are people out there—scads of them, apparently—who thrive on getting things done before sunrise. I’m just not one of them. It must be nothing short of remarkable to experience that satisfaction, that fulfillment, that true sense of accomplishment each and every day—around noontime, I would guess. Clearly, I appreciate the merits of such individuals and recognize that in large part, they are responsible for making the world tick. They’re society’s early birds—and they always get the worm.
I never really cared much for worms.
To summarize, my philosophy on the matter at hand: I hate rushing—especially in the morning. Lingering is more my style–in the true spirit of slothfulness, I might add. Furthermore, I firmly believe that the most cherished block of time for repose exists between the hours of five and seven a.m. If it happens to be raining or snowing, double the pleasure. From my perspective, little else compares to such sheer and unadulterated bliss. Exact change at the checkout counter, coupled with a competent and cordial clerk, perhaps comes close.
Coherent thought patterns, at such an ungodly hour, simply do not exist for me—as I assume they do for most morning people. At that time of day, my brain functions about as efficiently as a head of cabbage. Anything that would involve major decision-making (beyond suggesting what color socks my husband should wear that day) is out of the question. Telephone conversations are virtually impossible too—just ask the countless fools who have tried to dial me up then. They might as well have been talking to a disinterested turnip.
Thankfully, I’m a realist and have fully accepted the fact that it’s highly unlikely I’ll ever join the ranks of early risers. Historically speaking, I never showed much promise in that realm anyway. At times, however, I’ve been known to adopt some of their practices—at least temporarily—for the sake of holding down a job, attending a mandatory meeting or because I feared my family would LEAVE FOR THE BEACH WITHOUT ME (Gasp!). The likelihood of embracing such a concept altogether, however, is next to nil, and any discussion that would imply otherwise is just crazy talk.
Planet Mom: It’s where I live (probably sleeping in). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom to share your in-the-trenches parenting moments. You know you want to.
Copyright 2005 Melinda L. Wentzel