It’s 5:00 in the morning and I’ve been up for over an hour already. My experiment of early rising that I spoke about in my previous post is well underway. Except, it hasn’t been a conscious decision to be up and at ’em at this ungodly hour. I’m dealing with a massive case of toddler jet-lag over here. My 26-month-old woke me consistently and hourly from 11:00 pm to 4:00 am, at which point I gave up on sleep and succumbed to the inevitable.
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The early bird gets the worm – Time-honoured cliché
I am not an early bird. For the majority of my life, I’ve most definitely been in the night owl camp. People who claim to love the mornings have always filled me with vague suspicion. Surely they don’t naturally spring out of bed in the morning, full of zip, like that guy from Jerry Maguire? Aren’t their duvets snuggly and comfortable? Don’t they have alarm clocks which somehow fail to go off or mysteriously get snoozed?
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I am good at sleeping.
I rarely have insomnia, but when I do, I really suffer from the loss of my 8 hours. And I mean, tearfully, woefully suffer. Others around me suffer too.
The majority of the time, I strive to make those 8 or 9 hours happen. If I’m feeling unwell, I take to my bed for a solid 12-hour-marathon. I generally get up from these sleep-a-thons amazed at how restorative they’ve been. Well, duh.
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