There are times when I hate Florida. Namely, morning time.
While another place, like Seattle, Washington, has the decency to wake you with respect, with its soft, cloudy light gently filtering into your room, Florida clashes its symbols by spewing sunlight to crash through your blinds to slash at your puffy eyelids.
Florida days scream, “We’re morning people! Don’t waste your life sleeping!” Then, they blast you with light, heat and palm fronds to the eye, shaking you from your bedsheets like an unwanted louse.
Much to my chagrin, my wife is a morning person. It’s not all bad, since she does things for me that I can’t do for myself, like find my pants. But she usually greets me with a list of things she has planned for the day and then waits for feedback. We’ve been married 21 years. She should know me better. My brain is not foggy in the morning; it’s seasick and throwing up overboard.
As one of my favorite authors explains, maybe I’m not depressed, I’m just overly sober in the morning. Maybe a stiff drink would help. I know coffee does.
What really angers me about morning time is that I am yanked from a cocoon of blissful, cushiony joy right into doing stuff like standing up. Add an alarm clock and I’m being assaulted on all sides. My son, who I’m currently homeschooling, wakes me with, “Come on, Dad, I need to do my math.” His priorities are eschewed.
My son and wife are like Tigger, pouncing on my pain. They, along with all morning people everywhere, need to go somewhere together each morning and leave the rest of us alone. They could meet to yammer on about their lists, their productivity, and their strategies for seizing the day. I’d like it if they met far away, kept the noise down, and took a long walk off a short pier.
At work, a lady put up a poster that says, “The world belongs to the energetic.” Every morning when I see that poster, I think of killing that lady. Sadly, murder is frowned upon at work, and if I tried, she’d probably get the best of me with her quick, energetic bursts of positivity and kick-box training. I’m glad I’m not married to her. That poor, poor man. And lady, if you’re reading this, I’m not sorry. You put up the offensive poster.
Sometimes, my son wants to drag me out of bed to go fishing. “The fish are biting, Dad. It’s past 4:30!” Well, of course they are. I’d probably sleep-eat a worm, too, if someone threw it in my face. I’m sure fish get smarter as the day progresses.
Every morning, I feel like I mourn the day ahead and crave the night. Yet, when night finally arrives and I close my eyes in delicious anticipation, time leaps from my consciousness only to grab me by the collar and scream, “Good morning!” I hate time. Good morning should be changed to “Boo.”
Maybe I’m ranting here and you’re not on the same page. You might be a morning person, in which case, nothing I write about this horrible time of day will make sense to you. You’re probably thinking romantically about sunrises, fresh air, birds chirping, lawns being mowed, and torturing people like me. Have some empathy, please! Block the stupid rays of sun slicing through my bedroom, tell me that night is coming, and funnel coffee into my mouth. Then, be silent for approximately four hours. By noon, I can usually string words together into a grunt.