I find it amusing that people’s sleep tendencies are defined into two categories — early birds and night owls.
I mean, it obviously stands to reason. If you are perfectly able to go to bed at 10 or 11 p.m. each night, then you most likely will be capable of starting your day extremely early, while at the same time feeling refreshed and rejuvenated.
But if you’re the type of person who prefers to stay up late and go to bed at 1 or 2 a.m. or even later, then in all likelihood you are probably not somebody who is easily able to wake up early.
You never hear of somebody who is an “afternoon person,” or a “dusk guy.” There’s also no birds that describe either of those behaviors.
I, without a doubt, am a night owl.
And I’m not even saying that by default just because I like the night better than the day. I fucking hate mornings. In the first hour of being awake, I feel like how Michael Douglas does in the 1993 movie Falling Down. I’m like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. I hate everything and everyone.
At night is when I truly feel alive. I sit back, read, watch movies and TV shows, and I feel at peace. Like this is where my day truly starts. If I didn’t have anything to wake up for in the mornings, I would probably stay up each night until 4 or 5 a.m.
But as much as I hate the morning, that hatred doesn’t even come close to comparing to the way I feel the moment I must physically get out of bed. There is truly no worse point in human existence than that split second when you know your time to sleep is over, and you actually have to move your muscles to maneuver yourself upright and out of your bed.
Just lying there and knowing that I have no choice but to extend my arms and legs, physically lift the covers off of me, warp my back to sit up, and then spring my heels upward to raise the rest of my body to a standing position is probably one of the most daunting tasks I can ever have. I could be standing at the edge of a moving plane, on the verge of skydiving, and still feel significantly more comfortable than I do when I leave my bed.
I could be in an arena with a raging bull, equipped with nothing but a red towel, and still feel significantly more comfortable than I do when I leave my bed.
I could be Jesus Christ hanging from a crucifix and still feel significantly more comfortable than I do when I leave my bed.
The funny part is, that, five minutes later, I’m actually okay. Once I brush my teeth, throw some water on my face and then hop in the shower, I know that I am going to make it through the day. But it’s actually getting from the bed to the bathroom that is equally as trying as if I tried to run a pentathlon.
If I just learned the secret to somehow be able to pop out of bed with gusto, then I would probably be able to start each and every one of my days approximately one hour earlier. And I can do so much in that hour. I could actually make myself a hearty breakfast. I could go for a quick jog in the morning breeze. I can watch daytime freaking TV.
I could actually have a life in the morning.
But I just can’t.
Everybody has their “worst part of the day.” Mine occurs the second I open my eyes.
Hey, the bright side is the day can only get better from there.