All my life, I've been a Night Owl. My pale skin possibly to blame.
I'd typically slog through daylight hours. Pretend my way through the loud and the bright work of responsibilities. Then, about 8pm, a nocturnal surge would take place and my blood would run warm with the promise of all things possible under a handful of city stars. For years the moon was the pulse to my cellular makeup; pressing me into streetlights and shadowy profiles. Everything is interesting in the dark.
In college, it's when I'd write papers or visit friends playing their cello in a private concert for five.
In high school I'd write in journals or hang out at the foot of my grandma's bed to watch the last half hour of Johnny on Late Night.
In elementary school, I'd sneak out of bed to eavesdrop on the low voices and secret adult conversations happening under yellow lights and crossed legs.
Night time was exhilarating, mysterious, romantic, and when all the really good stuff happened.
I cannot keep my damn eyes open after 8pm.
Best I can do is whimper to my pillow about how much my head hurts.
Gone is the mystique and l'amour of midnight. I miss those blue hours where you get to play, express, explore or just meditate on sweetness.
Begrudgingly, I have become a Morning Person.
An annoying chipper, will probably telephone you at 7 a.m., Morning Person.
My kids are demanding Pop Tarts and chocolate milk by 5:45. I am pounding OJ and vitamins by 6:00.
Lunches and water bottles stand ready and able in the fridge, next to groceries just bought for actual recipes I intend to follow.
Clothes set out the night before are yanked on (backwards by Abby) and punctuated with toothpaste dots by 8:00.
I am holding metal strips on elliptical bars trying to get my heart rate above 136 an hour later. On purpose.
Nobody is more surprised than my mother.
Or more confused than me.
Who is this poser? Where did the real me go?
Maybe when the kids are older, things will get back to normal around here and I will slow dance with midnight again.