Life Before Noon

garfieldIt was morning and we were stepping out of the gate, bright sun in our eyes. It had been a late night, the midnight showing of Avengers 2, and probably because we’d stuffed ourselves with sugar and I’d had six espressos to keep my eyes open, the night’s sleep hadn’t been what you could call amazingly refreshing. Yet it was morning, and work beckoned. As he squinted in the light he muttered:
“Eurgh, I hate morning people.”
I nodded. I mean, who actually *likes* morning people? Bright an early is never fun. Right? Why can’t they just grumble and roll along until lunchtime hits like the rest of us? I threw out my stock Oscar Wilde quote: “Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast” but all I got was a puzzled look in return. And then it hit me: he thought I was a morning person.

After recovering from such a spiteful accusation, I ran through the check-list in my head. While he was visibly malfunctioning, I was alive and smiling. He was still mostly comatose, I was practically bouncing – and I’d not had breakfast yet. I was looking at the day as a good one already, despite having only been awake for an hour (and asleep for only 4 and a half). Had I become a morning person? Was I really one of THEM?!

It’s true that now I’m living your average 9 to 5 weekday, I have to go to bed around midnight. I get cranky after 12 hits unless I’ve had lots of alcohol (at which point I’m probably just being my bitchy queen of a drunk self anyway). Friends try to get me to stay up past 1 and I just nope out and curl up with in my duvet. After all, sleep is fun! It’s like the third most fun thing to do by yourself! Why are there all these people who refuse to lie down and conk out before 5am on average nights?

Am I getting old? Is that just it? I know I’m halfway through my 20s and white hairs are just a thing now, I’m incredibly excited about knitwear, and Nigella Lawson is like my second mum, but I was unaware of when I slipped into the turgid swamp of white, middle-class adultism and left behind my “don’t talk to me before 11am” days.

Perhaps it’s because I’ve fully embraced my inner geek and have no issue becoming unduly excited over small things. I find letting myself overdose on happiness and joy rather agrees with me, so if you give me reasons to smile at 8 o’clock like, say, having seen Avengers 2 only hours previously, realising I still had a full huge bag of chocolate I didn’t get around to last night in my bag, or the fact that the sun was shining, then yeah – I’ll be jubilant in the AM.

Then again, perhaps I’m not a morning person. Maybe it’s just that some suffer more than others before noon and I won yet another genetic lottery that decrees that while morning is not my favourite time, it’s not the end of the world and my speech and motor functions are still intact. I still refuse to leave my bed before noon for anything other than a five alarm fire, the zombie apocalypse, or free food on a Saturday and Sunday however. And while my internal clock may wake me up before 9 on the weekend, I am most definitely going to lie here for three hours while I go on the internet. And I’m not one of those “let’s get up at 5 and go for a run” types. Those people are dangerous, stay away from them because they are probably the lizard people in disguise that David Ike has been warning us all about. And I will still give you a truckload of side eye and unspoken but clearly detectable (practically tangible) scorn to anyone who sings at me to wake me up. Unless it’s Julie Andrews of course. But then I’d have all sorts of other pressing questions to deal with.

What are you doing here? Am I dead? Is this heaven? Am I naked? Would you like some tea, Julie?

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