Morning is Broken

Recently I've been fully engaged in thinking about myself and my endless number of quirky personal preferences, habits and lifestyle choices. Writing is included in this list, but I have sorely neglected it over the past few months. So I thought it would be a fun idea to start a series of self-absorbed essays that folks can read and yawn over in between watching "The Girls Next Door" and watering their lawns.

I figure a good starting point would be in the morning. Actually, that's not completely true; I don't really like the A.M. portion of the day. Regardless, it seems to make sense chronologically. But more importantly, I should repeat that I dislike the first few waking hours of the day.

I suppose my disdain for daybreak stems from the fact that my body seems to be naturally wired to stay up late. Also, I actually enjoy staying up late. That doesn't bode well for morning's bid to win my affections. To me, morning just seems desperate and over-eager. The sun popping out and disturbing the tranquil pleasantness of sleepy darkness is the morning's way of repeatedly tapping me on the shoulder and saying "Look at me! Aren't I pretty? Please give me your undivided love and attention! Please?! Please! Please!!!"

Physically, the beginning of the day is irksome. I wake up in the morning with "sleep"/mucus/eye boogers. My stomach feels unsettled. I have an urgent desire to use the restroom. If I've excercised the day before, my muscles are sore. My mouth tastes like the bottom of a dumpster. My ear hurts because I've somehow slept on it while it was folded over against my head.

To add to my auricular miseries, I have to listen to the bubbly morning news anchors who somehow manage to report on the brutal murders of the evening before with the same sing-song delivery of a Sesame Street character. And it's tough to find a forecast from a weatherman who isn't zany, jolly, or chipper on top of being, most importantly, inaccurate.

The drive into work provides some respite. It allows me time to be quiet and let my body wake up to the inevitability of another day. I manage to sing along to a couple of songs so that my speaking voice doesn't sound like the torturer's in "The Princess Bride". This comes in handy when spewing invectives at fellow drivers who are too busy shaving/putting on makeup/brushing teeth/reading the newspaper to stay between the white dashes painted on the street.

Once I get into the office, I look forward to completing my only deadline-oriented task of the day without being bothered. It generally doesn't work out that way. The-Guy-Who-Inexplicably-Always-Comes-In-An-Hour-Before-Anyone-Else-Does feels like it's his duty to say "Good morning, Nick!" because someone once told him that he wasn't personable enough. After I grunt "Hello," I plop down in my chair and attend to the responsibilities set before me, all the while wondering why people insist on using the greeting "Good morning!" My boss comes skipping in, glowing like a LiteBrite, ready to tackle the day like a linebacker drilling a quarterback. I just try to duck and move until I finish my task.

I then head down to the snack machine to purchase some nourishment. No coffee for me. I don't see the appeal of drinking dark brown sludge to wake myself up. All I need is some small offering from the Sugary Bread food group. If someone brings in donuts or bagels, all the better. If not, I'll scrounge up a buck to buy a honey bun or some Hostess cupcakes. This delectable treat combined with time to scour the internet for news and baseball scores added to the three hours I've now been awake equals a much more manageable morning. Not a good morning, mind you, but that will have to work.