SOMEONE asked me the other day whether I was a “morning person”.
I wasn’t really sure what that meant, other than to ascertain they were referring to my sleep patterns.
When you drill into the question, it really is quite personal. In fairness to the person asking however, I was in rather a grumpy mood, so they were probably searching grimly for excuses on my behalf.
Were “mornings” really to blame? Let’s just say there were other mitigating factors, not least a sour checkout person at the grocery store who’d put my cheese next to my meat.
I know they’re both sealed, but I have to live with the knowledge that the condensation from both packages had become wedded in a cocktail of mixed droplets. Cheese and raw meat are not a good couple.
So, the whole sleep pattern question got me thinking.
Had I been asked in my 20s whether I was a “morning person”, the answer would have been a resounding “depends what time you call morning? Noon?”
Because in your youth, it’s so much easier to sleep through whatever noise the flat mates care to throw at you.
Maybe it’s a life cycle thing. When we visit Geoffrey in the aged care home, he doesn’t have problems sleeping. When we get there, he’s usually just awoken from a slumber.
He uses it as an excuse for not knowing who we are, but the memory puzzle is an ongoing challenge for poor old Geoffrey who’s so worn down I’ve seen him fall asleep mid-sentence. Even nodded off with a spoonful of yoghurt in his mouth on one particular occasion.
What to do, right? Give him a slap, or reef the spoon from his mouth in the hope his false teeth don’t come too.
In my 30s and 40s, things were so much easier, a work life driven by alarms and calendars and routine.
One bell to rise, another to move to the nearest meeting room to meet whomever cares to show their face at the door. Hindsight can be as frightening as it is enlightening. It enlists lessons, and in this case reveals the humdrum rut we often find ourselves in when thrust with the responsibilities of life that come with a desire for security.
Too deep? Not too deep if you’re a morning person, apparently. Because it’s all I thought about during my 50s as I rose at 5am, trying to figure out how to recapture 20 years of lost time.
My body must have felt that way too, alert and beaming with energy my 20-year-old self would have been embarrassed by.
Now, in retirement, I’m not so sure where I stand. I’m not really one for a sleep-in. Yet, it takes me longer these days to get warmed up.
Maybe that makes me a “morning person with conditions”, a set of caveats which determine precisely how “morning” I’ll be on any given morning.
A fair portion of my morning capabilities will be determined by my erratic night patterns. I may have spent time tuning into the wireless to listen to the thoughts of late-night listeners who, might I add, are a column unto their own.
Anything more than six hours of night rest and I’ll usually muster a morning smile, a brylled comb-over and a cheeky glisten in my eye.
Better to ask first.
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