Early Morning: The Struggle Continues

Some have predicted that my being forced to get up at 5:15 to teach my dreaded 7:30 a.m. class will be good for me. That sliding into an early, early morning schedule will change my life for the better. I'll have more daylight, feel more energized, leave my extremist nocturnal ways behind forever.

My spouse, faithful Adorer of the Dawn, is now witnessing the details of my new regimen. He would undoubtedly hear fewer protests from me if I were kept locked in a straw-lined cage and awakened by the blast of a firehose at 6 a.m., then dragged by the tangled hair into the kitchen and forced to re-enact the Von Trapp family's "Lonely Goatherd" play using only wooden spoons and sticks of butter.

I've been trying desperately to ramp up to my new wake-up time. Had I any brains in my head, I'd have started this process at least a month ago. But that would've involved foresight and intelligence, and that all-important dollop of self-discipline. Which we ain't got none of 'round here. At least not in my corner of the house.

Scott has this wonderfully pragmatic way of living. If something needs to be done, he just does it. Rarely does he complain about anything. His general attitude is a sleek quarterhorse twitching with anticipation at the starting gate, while mine is a limping, angry, emaciated donkey who gnaws at the fencepost while composing hate letters to the flies on his back.

Poor Scott has ended up with a woman who must sustain a running commentary on her misery, lest the world not fully comprehend how downtrodden she is. Among the comments he has heard from me during the past 3 mornings:

"You cannot possibly understand how awful this is for me."
"If you loved me you would make this go away."
"This is going to kill me."
"No. Eggs sound gross."
"I detest the sunlight."
"What is the POINT of ANYTHING???"

And this is my best self.

I try to force perspective upon my defeated thoughts. I realize that I could be in many worse circumstances. I still have my health, people who love me, a house to live in, food to eat, etc. What if I were in military boot camp, where even a smidgen of whining is rewarded with a 10 mile run? And if you pass out during the run, unspeakable volunteered fluids are poured over your incoherent skull. THEN I'd have something to cry about.

Ah, but the fencepost is so tasty.