About three years ago, I started doing something that sorta shocked my poor Mom, who had to spend my high school years parading up and down the hallway every morning, banging a metal garbage can a la R. Lee Ermey in Full Metal Jacket to get me to school on time.
I started setting my alarm for 5 a.m.
It is possible that there are weirdos out there reading this who think such a thing represents normal behavior. Oh, perhaps it comes naturally to you? Are you a “morning person?” Go back to Alpha Centauri, freak. It’s not normal at all, at least not for me.
I’m not one of those people who opens my eyes at the first rays of dawn and starts saying “What’s for breakfast?” and jumping on the bed. Given the opportunity, I would literally — and I know because I’ve done it — sleep until noon, get up and walk the dog, take three Advil and go back to bed. In the days when I let myself indulge in such things — it was some years ago at this point — if I was feeling extremely motivated I might pile my ass into the belching, farting Subaru and rumble my way up Lincoln Avenue to Le Video so I could rent Bernardo Chagaro’s lost classic Entrails on a bootleg VHS transfer from Hungarian TV with Ukrainian subtitles, then get back in bed and watch it. Or something.