When I was a kid, I was a huge bookworm. My parents and siblings slept on the top floor of our white, green-shuttered house on the hill and I slept on the bottom floor. The room was meant to be a dining room, but it functioned as a playroom for many years. When I was in second grade I moved in to escape my sister's snoring. A coat of cherry blossom pink paint on the walls, frilly white curtains, a donated lavender rug from a friend's younger brother, and it was a room fit for an eight year old princess. The best part of the room was the china hutch, which made a wonderful bookshelf for my dog eared, juice stained copies of the Baby Sitters Club and Sweet Valley Twins. I read The Baby Sitters Club Super Special #2, the one where the girls go to sleep away camp, so many times that the cover fell off.
Living on the bottom floor enabled me to stay up well past the time I was supposed to turn off the lights, devouring every word of Ann M. Martin's and Francine Pascal's. When Sweet Valley High misfit Annie attempted suicide, my heart jumped into my throat and all thoughts of slumber were pushed aside as I raced frantically through the final pages of the book. My imagination stayed up past bedtime also - after reading a book in the Nancy Drew Case Files series, I crept to the top of the stairs and urgently informed my mother that the rhythmic ticking outside my window was a sure indication that someone had planted a bomb. Master Detective Mommy quickly surmised that a melting icicle was the true sound of the noise.
My refusal to go quietly into the dark night continued throughout my school years. Now in a house across town in a second floor bedroom with a phone line shared only with my sister, I had friends, boyfriends and crushes with whom to while the night away. Being the kind of girl a guy could call at 1 am on a school night for a flirtatious chat fit with the slightly rebellious image I cultivated for myself, and when it came time to fill out my dorm assignment paperwork before leaving for college, I circled the latest time slots available as my preferred bed time. (FYI - filling out your paperwork that way screams "I like to party!" to housing staff, who will then be guaranteed to assign you to the least updated dorm with the fewest amenities. Live and learn.)
All that changed when I started dating Jack senior year of college. Because he was an ROTC cadet, he had to get up hours before the typical college student. Jack would turn in well before midnight, a concept truly foreign to me. I would watch Family Guy in the living room of my small apartment while Jack hit the hay in my bedroom and eventually his habits began to wear off on me.
By the time I had an internship in the elementary setting in graduate school, I thought I had outgrown my night owl days. I loved going to bed and sometimes it was a struggle to maintain enough alertness to talk to Jack when he would call from Iraq when I was ready to turn in. I frequently opted to watch tv with my sister on a Friday night at my parents' suburban home rather than drive into Boston to go out with my girlfriends. At 24, I felt "over" staying up late.
Throughout the rest of my 20s, I considered myself a reformed night owl. During our six months residency in Arizona, Jack and I lived in an apartment complex that never seemed to get truly dark. Despite the fact that I had very little to occupy myself, I was up before 7 each day, no alarm necessary.
And then there's now. Now I stumble bleary-eyed throughout the day, only filled with vim as the sun starts to sink. I drag myself out of bed at a more than decent hour (Petal has been sleeping until 9 lately,) still loathe to part from my covers. By the time Petal and I have gone to playgroup/music class/the library/errands or whatever else our morning entailed and then eaten lunch, we are both ready for a nap. I slink gratefully back into slumber, zonked after a mere 4 hours awake. I know I want to take advantage of the beautiful weather, but I just can't make myself leave my soft nest.
Around dinner time, I finally start to become alert. I head to the gym and return with a bounce in my step. I have endless patience with Petal. I finally get going on my work from home job, feeling as though my brain is finally on enough to process my assignment. I do the laundry. I write emails. I blog. I talk Jack's ear off. I finally feel like my batteries are fully charged, and my bed looks like just another piece of furniture instead of the forbidden Eden it appears when I have such diurnal difficulty staying away from it.
Is 31 too old to be going through a sleeping "phase" or am I doomed to be a night owl until I'm old enough for the early bird special?
