LJ Idol - Morganmuffel
(Sadly no Milton this week - maybe next week will have a prompt I can use for it)
It’s always been part of my identity that I’m not a morning person. I’m not an early riser, I don’t wake up cheerful and ready to tackle the day. My entire family will tell you - “oh, she’s just worthless in the morning!”
Growing up on a farm, sleeping in was treated like a moral failing, something that must be fixed. “How will you handle early lectures when you go to school?” “You need to get past this, you can’t be late once you start working!” Despite all their efforts, my naturally preferred waking time was 8:30am, followed by an hour-long wallow in my warm bed with a book.
Today, I’m a week short of 46. I’ve been working full-time since I was 24, and had summer or co-op jobs since I was 17. I’ve had periods of unemployment - high-tech isn’t the most stable of careers - but I’ve never once been fired for chronic lateness. I have a daughter that we walk to school at 8:15, through rain, shine, snow, and sleet. I wake up every morning at 6:30 at the latest to make sure I get at least a few minutes to myself before the craziness begins, and during work from home due to COVID, I often sat down at my desk by 7am.
I have seen my parents change. In retirement, my mother loves to sleep in and has a book on the bedside to read with coffee when she wakes. She often doesn’t get dressed until 10am. My dad is still an early bird, but often stays up late into the night to watch sports, and relies on an afternoon nap to get through the day.
And yet, my family will still tell you I’m worthless in the morning. That I will bury my head in a book and ignore everything around me, including sensible bedtimes. That you can’t get any useful conversation or thought out of me until noon. This is how they see me. This is how they categorize me. This is my identity - in their eyes.
Their eyes are not my own. Their eyes do not see me clearly, misted as they are with scenes from the past. Their eyes are loving and beloved, but lack clarity into how my life and my family function.
Some days it makes me crazy, that they don’t realize how much I’ve changed. Most days I’m so grateful that there is still someone who remembers the girl who hated mornings, someone who thinks the girl has the opportunity to sleep past 7am and read into the wee hours. I’d still like to be that person now.
Maybe in retirement.