Up before the sun: a lovely, poetic, and altogether inaccurate phrase. I love it. I only love it, of course, with this sort of skeptical relish after I’ve had nearly eight hours of sleep. This happens so infrequently that my general feeling about early mornings is that they are specifically designed, like Oprah’s book club, to weed out mildly unmotivated people, leaving behind only those who sink their teeth into the neck of the day with such singular diligence that I avoid them, like I avoid Oprah’s book club, whenever possible.
However, I have just slept nearly eight hours in a row and all in the same night, and so I am unreasonably jubilant, and writing to you all about how well-rested I am, which is possibly the most annoying thing to read first thing in the morning, especially if you are not similarly well-rested, but halfway through November I’m still pretending to try and write every day, and as a result you suffer through smug little entries like this.
Yet I am less than smug; I am befuddled. If I was so easily able to knock down the pins of insomnia last night, why can’t I every night? What was so special about last night, aside from it being after a long workday and a dinner date with my D? Unfortunately, the only difference I can think of is that I went to bed before 22:30, which can only mean one thing: my previous tactic of folding like origami eight hours of sleep into four actual hours has failed.
I’m tackling life’s mysteries one at a time right here for you, folks. No need to thank me. Next up: why does my back hurt all the time when I have such poor posture?
(Courtesy notice: my tumblelog flighty is vaguely more interesting than this place, at least until my work project is over, and maybe permanently.)