Morning people have an aura of mystery about them. They are up before the whole world finishes dreaming. And, here's the mystery: They are happy about it.
I've always wanted to be a morning person. It seems so romantic to rise at the crack of dawn, drink two cups of coffee, wash three loads of laundry, read the paper, feed the dog, prepare a farmhouse breakfast, and dress for success all before the short hand ticks to the six.
And I try. The radio interrupts my slumber promptly at 5:45 each morning. After my husband nudges me gently several times, he resorts to a smart shove, which dislodges me from my side of the bed. I walk over to the clock and turn off the talking heads, and try to ignore my spouse making a great show of spreading across the half empty marital nest.
Bliss my foot. Love isn't blind; it's too tired to say anything.
Twenty minutes later he stumbles into the bathroom in a stupor. "How long does it take to soap off? You going to leave me any hot water this morning?"
"I think I fell asleep," I groggily respond from behind the curtain.
"I don't know what happened," I say, "but I've lost some time somewhere."
"Well that water is still running," he accuses.
"Maybe I was abducted by aliens for the last 20 minutes. I can't remember if I washed my hair yet."
Now irritated, he demands that I get out of the shower, which I do.
A few minutes later, I turn around to see him naked and poised to step over the edge of the tub, but not completing the motion. "What are you doing?" I ask.
"Huh," he says, bleary eyed. "I don't know."
Seeing the dazed and vacant look on his face, I suggest, "See. The aliens got you too."
"Whatever." He turns on the water and gets in. "You used all the hot water."
"No I didn't."
"Then the aliens did, because I'm standing on ice in here."
"There was plenty of hot water when I got out of the shower. There's just more of you than me and so it gets used faster when you're in there," I explain.
I once read that if I performed a specific task for 21 days in a row, it would become a habit. Hopeful that I will acquire the routine of rising before the rooster, I continue setting my alarm for the wee hours. Sadly, pressing the snooze button five times in a row is the only inclination I have developed. A practice my husband has never learned to appreciate.
He says that if I know I'm not going to get up, then I should set my alarm for the time that I actually plan to crawl out of bed.
Alas, I am sufficiently unable to come out of my coma.
I've had bright moments, however, in my attempts to overcome my hazy eyed meeting with the morning. Once, on vacation at the beach, I awoke early and took a solitary morning stroll on the beach. Idealism resulted in an encounter with the rancid, rotting corpse of a horseshoe crab. I stepped in fish entrails left behind by an early morning, surf fisherman, and I happened upon a man urinating into the ocean.
Worst of all, I had the unfortunate opportunity to pass an obscenely large jogger putting undue stress on a surprisingly small Speedo.
I went home, climbed back in bed, and waited for the aliens.