Let me preface this by saying I am not, nor have I ever been, a morning person. My ideal wake-up time involves the sun already being a respectable distance above the horizon. My spirit animal is a sleepy sloth that just woke up for a midnight snack.
The Pact (and My Unrealistic Expectations)
It all started innocently enough. My friend, let’s call her Sunshine Sally (because that’s what she practically radiates at 6 am), suggested we start going for morning jogs. “It’ll be amazing!” she enthused, “The fresh air, the sunrise, the feeling of accomplishment before most people have even finished their coffee!”
Now, I like feeling accomplished as much as the next person, and I’m not opposed to fresh air, but the sunrise part? That’s where I draw the line. Nevertheless, I found myself agreeing, fueled by some misguided notion that I, too, could become one of those mythical morning people who bounce out of bed, chirping about dew drops and the promise of a new day.
The first morning arrived, and true to my nocturnal nature, I hit the snooze button approximately 37 times before dragging myself out of bed. Sally, bless her heart, was already downstairs, practically vibrating with perkiness. The jog itself was a blur, mostly because I was running on fumes and sheer willpower.
This continued for the rest of the week. I became intimately familiar with the inside of my eyelids at 5:30 am, learned to function on autopilot while making coffee, and even managed a few grunts that vaguely resembled conversation with Sunshine Sally.
The only accomplishment I felt was surviving until noon without faceplanting into my keyboard.
The Inevitable Downfall (and My Return to Slumber)
By day five, my body had staged a full-blown revolt. My brain refused to form coherent sentences, I subsisted primarily on caffeine and dry cereal, and I’m fairly certain I accidentally wore mismatched socks on more than one occasion.
The final straw came when I, in my sleep-deprived stupor, poured orange juice into my coffee. It was at that moment, staring down at the unholy concoction, that I admitted defeat.