Morning Person

I love the early morning. It is so serene, it's almost silky. Sneaking out of bed, I dress in the dark, careful to not wake my husband. Dressing in the dark produces some amusing results: backward facing turtle necks, inside out undies, and unrelated socks. I admit up front that tiptoeing around like this is motivated less by altruism than by a desire to have the house to myself - at least for an hour or two.

Once downstairs, I fill the tea kettle and feed the cat, take the dog out while I pick up the newspapers - he knows his assignment at this point. Back in the house, I make the tea, build a fire, give Barley his ration of kibbles, and sink into "the chair" with a book, The Economist, or something equally meaty. Quiet and cozy, it is the perfect time of day to become lost in thought. The dog that has slept for the past eight hours like - well a dog - seems intent on logging another two or three. I have a full pot of tea and toast at my elbow – now let the day begin!

Right before dawn, a pair of bald eagles flies over, nattering to one another about their sleep last night and the fishing prospects for the day ahead. My early morning read has produced ample fodder to occupy my mind for the next few hours. It is pure magic and I wouldn't miss out this ritual for the world. Rising early manages to not only extend the day but to enhance it as well.

Not everyone in my family is a morning person. My mother certainly wasn't. As a small child I knew better than to attempt to engage her in conversation at first light. Mornings were preternaturally quiet in the kitchen as we all followed some unarticulated edict that speech would be confined to single syllable utterances in low modulated tones; for the most part, speech was unnecessary. Nods and looks generally sufficed.

Mother sat beside the wood stove on the bench in her flannel bathrobe, drinking coffee and eating an orange. To this day the combined smell of coffee and oranges evokes my mother’s image. I sat on a low stool at her feet contemplating my shoe laces while she brushed and braided my hair. Tying my shoelaces so that they would stay tied was somehow a daunting task for me as a child. Even then I realized that on a daily basis I was failing some sort of domestic intelligence test; still, I am not sure that I ever really put my heart into it. If dad was around, he could be counted on to bail me out. Cuddling up with my father while he showed me how to tie my shoes “just one more time” outweighed any pride of accomplishment that might have accompanied “getting it right.”

Morning people are smug – justifiably so by my lights. By the time the caffeine craving slugabeds make an appearance, morning people have accomplished more than the other folks will by quitting time. Though the topic has never come up explicitly, for years I have assumed that EVERYONE recognized that “morning person” was simply code for superior! I mean really, what could night owls possibly accomplish banging around in the middle of the night?

With this background, you can imagine my chagrin when I recently read some medical report that “confirmed” that as people age, they need less sleep and consequently rise earlier in the day. These nosy parker research types assume that news of this sort will provide some sort of comfort to folks who find themselves awake at 3:00 a.m. Balderdash – as someone who has often intentionally risen at 3:00 a.m. to finish a particularly great book, I certainly do not find it comforting to now be lumped together with a lot of other old farts! Really, give me a break!

Oh I know that eventually we all must bid farewell to the accoutrements of youth– looks, stamina, muscle tone, brain cells. But to have to kiss the central core of my identity good bye, well that is asking a lot and will take some work. For the time being, I will find comfort in short term memory loss about the above study to help me move on. Who needs bad news, after all? In the meantime, see you in the morning. First guy up gets dibs on the chair!