On a Lark

 

Several years ago, I realized that engaging in grown-up life left me with no extra energy to spend on tip-toeing around difficult subjects, or in pretending to be something that I am not. I started moving toward more straightforward and genuine interactions with people whenever possible.

And that was when most of my friends discovered that I am a seventy-year-old woman trapped in a mid-thirties body.

I am most centered, and most alert, at the start of the day, and since I’ve always been an early riser this works to my benefit. I have no problem getting up while it is still dark out. I cherish the first quiet hours of the day, when everyone else is still asleep. I get more work done in the two hours before my co-workers arrive than I do in the six hours we then spend in the office together.

I’m a lark, pure and simple. My circadian rhythm, for whatever reason, sends my brain a hard-wired cue to start my day started when most people are still wrapped tightly in their blanket burritos, with no intention of coming out.

 

Unfortunately, I have somehow aligned myself with a bunch of owls. Turns out, lots of people actually LIKE staying up past ten p.m. And unfortunately, a chunk of those people are my friends. Friends with fun plans and fantastic things to say, who want to experience all that fun and fantastic-ness after my preferred bedtime. One of the most freeing aspects of my quest for authenticity has been a new-found willingness to say goodnight to these lovely people.

I had spent fifteen years miserably participating in screenings of midnight movies, concerts, and late-night cheese fries at the local Coney Island, all the while wishing for nothing more than my pillow. There were many reasons I had not wanted to tell these folks that they were slowly killing me with their lingering conversations and charming game nights…. fear of missing out, fear of offending a host, fear of jokes about how I needed to go home and watch my programs while putting on my Vaporub and taking out my teeth — I just didn’t want to be the lame one, and so I kept my mouth shut. Except during frequent, desperate yawns.

By the time I hit 35, I’d had enough. I declared myself done with it all, and started breaking the news: I like to go to bed at 9:30. Yes, really. Yes, even on weekends. Yes, even though this has been super fun. Because my pants feel like they are trying to eat me, and I want nothing more than to take them off and crawl under my comforter.

What felt even better were the conversations I had with myself on the topic. Yes, I am okay with letting them go out without me. Yes, it’s okay for me to follow my own instincts. Yes, I will be fine with hearing about all the fun they had later, and happy that we all did what made sense for ourselves.

What a novel concept: saying yes to the things I wanted to do, and no to the things that I didn’t. Great for the psyche, and for the TV schedule. Matlock’s on super early.