“I don’t do mornings” is something that I have been telling people regularly. The admission is not a boast by any stretch, but it is honest. It is usually confessed when the conversation drifts toward disclosing daily routines, which can be quite personal. You can imagine my delight when my mom gifted me a silk sleep mask this past Christmas that has this phrase — “I don’t do mornings” — written across the front. It was as if I spoke it into existence. Still, I admire morning people and their energy. They can have their day won by lunchtime!
I have tried the whole waking up before sunrise to do some fasted cardio because it’s good for you thing and — let me tell you — it is not for me. I can’t get fired up that early. After feeling grateful for having awoken, I grumble with the thought that always follows: here we go again, thrust upon an unjust and confusing, yet beautiful, world. It takes me about 90 minutes (yes, I’ve timed myself) to return to Earth from the foggy and whimsical realm of dreams. I can’t be spoken to within this window, if you want a coherent and happy response. More like mourning routine.
I have come to notice that nothing really good happens in the mornings anyway. Mornings can be oversimplified as the first major third of the day, rife with routine and predictable busyness, that…
