Five and a half years ago, in the hallway of Cornerstone’s science building, on a bench across from the fish-tank, a friend and I talked about the date he’d arranged for me.
“Well, he works nights,” Friend was saying, wearily. “He can’t meet people. He’s not awake when anyone else is awake. I had to intervene.”
I’d spent three college years avoiding morning classes and doing the bulk of my homework in desperate, up-all-night sessions, so this mode of existence (getting up in the afternoon, going to work from early evening to early morning, and then climbing in bed as the sun’s coming up) sounded enchanting. If the date went well, and this Random Boy and I had a future together, it would be a future of nights instead of mornings.
Fast-forward into the Random Boy’s and my future, to last month, around Valentine’s Day, when he (after six years? Seven years? Longer than that?) was finally switched to a daytime work schedule, something he’s been attempting for, well, six or seven or longer than that years.
He is thrilled to have rejoined the majority of working friends and family who are up before the sun and home around 5.
I am, um, so-happy-for-him?
*sigh that is very happy-for-him, but also mourning the loss of those late nights, those sleepings right through the mornings*
I get up in the morning, now.
I hate getting up in the morning.
Mornings are all in keeping, of course, with my goals of being more productive, spending more time writing, learning to do new things, and running a smoother, tidier household. They’re a thick slab of day where you can’t do much except read books and Scripture and journal and drink coffee and make breakfast and put the dishes away and go over the budget book because nothing in town is open and no one is sending work-related emails.
Hopefully, I get used to this, and learn to find the joy in mornings. Until then, grrr.