I make no secret of the fact that I am an early-to-bed and early(ish)-to-rise kind of person. On weekdays, I wake up around 6:30 a.m. On weekends, I may go crazy and stay in bed until 8 a.m.
This also means as time has evolved, I have given myself a pretty firm 9:30-10 p.m. bedtime. Yes, I am serious.
I am rarely up to see the 11 o’clock news. Is that even a thing? I don’t know if there is an 11 o’clock news anymore. If all goes well, I’ve been asleep for over an hour by that time. Late night TV? For me, that’s any Netflix program we start after 9 p.m.
Our dogs are well trained, or perhaps they have trained me well? In either case, they both get very antsy around 9:30 p.m. Just in case I forgot we are an early-to-bed pack, one dog will begin to dramatically sigh and flop herself down. I know just how she feels. I take my bedtime very seriously.
Late night shows
Recently, I accepted plans to go to the theater. A live show. Those always sound so fun in my head. The only glitch is for some reason producers of these type of things believe 8 p.m. is a great start time for arts and culture. I disagree.
I would agree if said play was, at max, an hour long. Or if it started at noon. That is never, ever, the case. They are always at or over two hours with intermission and there we are not leaving the theater until after 10:30 at night. Why? I’m going to confess as much as I love going to the show, I rarely have any idea what happens after halftime, er, intermission.
This week’s play had me home shortly after midnight. Midnight, people! I left on one date and came home on another. This is not acceptable.
I finally tucked myself into bed at 1 a.m. and had to be up again at 6 a.m. Perhaps there are people who survive and even thrive on five hours of sleep. I am not one of them.
I spent the following day trying to inject caffeine directly into a vein. I made it through the day like the martyr I am. That night, I dove into my bed at almost 9:30 p.m. on the dot. I pretended to read for exactly two pages, per my usual, and fell deeply asleep.
The next morning, I woke up bright and early. I felt chipper. I took the dog outside to do her business and then told her, cheerfully, we would go back to bed for just a little bit. It was so early, and it was my day off. I felt I deserved it. I might read a bit.
The next thing I knew, I opened my eyes to bright, beaming sunlight. How late was it? Oh my goodness, had I slept until 9 a.m.? I glanced at the clock and sat bolt upright in bed, shocked. It was 11:20 a.m. I had been asleep for almost 14 hours!
I immediately assessed myself to see if perhaps I was ill? Glands? Good? Sore throat? None. No fever. The normal aches and pains of age. I wasn’t sick. So what was my excuse? Waking up in my favorite bedroom with a fluffy white comforter and my beloved pets snuggled up to me? This certainly could be Heaven.
Then I saw the basket of unfolded laundry by the closet door. I feel like the Lord wouldn’t do me like that. I expect better of Heaven than unfolded blue jeans and mismatched socks. Waking up surrounded by laundry feels more like the other end of the spectrum.
I have no idea how I managed to sleep nearly fourteen hours. I never hit a snooze button. Perhaps I bumped a coma button? I must have needed it.
I have now made a solemn pact with myself to never stay out after midnight if I can help it. Works for Cinderella. Works for me. I have grown to accept who I am and how I am wired.
I proudly keep toddler hours and I’m not ashamed to admit that. Going to bed early. Not leaving my house. Not going to a party. My teenage punishments have become my adult goals.
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