a) Going to bed early to make sure I get the 8 hours of sleep I require to maintain this sunny disposition, which always feels like quitting;
b) Staying up late anyway, reveling in the creeps-and-thugs hours and gambling that what-say tomorrow I learn I really only need five hours of sleep, after all these years of thinking otherwise.
I've always been like this. Family lore includes a bunch of pissed off aunts and uncles who thought they had a grip on babysitting, only to find me -- three hours after my bedtime -- sitting up in the hallway outside of my bedroom, spying on Johnny Carson. I like that this is part of my history. It's the Yeah, well, I can't help it card I carry in my wallet that usually gets me out of things that happen before "The Price is Right." Usually. It's the way I was born. It's a thing. My friend the Rock Star Amy Abts calls it "Delayed Circadian Rhythm" and says that a sleep study will show it. That sounds real, credible. Even interesting. I'll take it. I don't even need the test.
Something happens to me around 2:30 a.m.-3 a.m. where I am just wham-bammed by a surge of energy and all I want to do is scrub a toilet or write a novel or finish the last 200 pages of this book or maybe I'll start running. The one concession I've made to controlling my night-ness is that I don't let myself see those hours during the week. I can't afford to be clavicle deep in Scrubbin' Bubbles when the sun comes up. So 2 a.m. gets to be the latest of late.
There are people who think that if you sleep late it means you are lazy. If you wake up at 11 a.m. or hell 2 p.m. on a Saturday, you've wasted the day and obviously you think Mountain Dew is a vegetable and only read the back of video games. No one says this sort of thing about someone who goes to bed at 8 p.m., though. Those people are obviously so tuckered out from a day not swearing and buying sub sandwiches for homeless people that they've earned a pass on keeping up in conversations about Prime Time TV.
So I had to get up early this week. Pulled on my slippers repeating my morning bedside mantra: This will only hurt until your second sip of coffee. Then the healing begins. Coffee made by 8:30 a.m., quiet time with the internet -- it was so early Chuck wasn't even home from work yet -- and hair in asymmetrical knots by 9:15 a.m. Out the door by 9:35 a.m. The sun was different and the style of traffic unfamiliar. It wasn't the worst thing in the world. I even had time to go the Y and make dinner and read a lot before bed. It was a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to ... you know.