I Touch Their Poo: Morning Person
I used to wonder how adults could get so much done in 24 hours. I used to wonder this from a sauce-stained recliner, half-conscious, with an Xbox controller falling out of my hand. ”Movement” in general seemed like a bit of a reach. To do it with a purpose outside of “Please reconnect controller to your Xbox console” seemed like an overzealous romp into the unknown realm of the productive.
of course, one is apt to be more useful than a corpse when their self preservation, rather than just the early afternoon of a given summer’s day, is on the line. When I see my name signed on for an 8 am dog walk, it used to be met by an unsettling wave of dread as I realized I’d already stayed up until 3:30 playing “The Last Stand 2.”
Sooner or later, you’ve got to decide what’s more important: Getting to work on time, or SAVING THE DAMN WORLD FROM WAVE AFTER WAVE OF THE UNDEAD.
Inevitably, I learned that until the real ones come (and they are coming), work trumps zombies. There’s no way to explain why you are late to your boss using the phrase “zombie apocalypse” without someone demanding that you contact a therapist and possibly a sleep specialist.
That’s how adults get things done. They are up in time to correctly utilize the words “Good morning,” without some jokey “What do you mean morning?” response. Ha, ha. We get it. ”Time of day” humor is always at its richest when applied to real world situations. You are a legend of comedy, sir.
The first time I woke up to walk Jimbo and Miley I trundled down a few blocks in gym shorts, flip flops, and crescendoing rage, doused in a decent layer of sweat and “morning smells” (Not having to adhere to human standards of appearance is a welcome, welcome perk of the profession). It did not go well. I dropped their food. I accidentally turned on the TV. I set off the burglar alarm. In the business, we call this “fucking bullshit.”
The actual stroll was a stumble through the sizzling pits of hell. We baked like turds in the sun and my temperament was not ideal for a survival situation. My goal became to crawl back to the homestead with living creatures still at either end of the leashes.
But, as time went on, I appreciated these walks more and more. They got me out of bed at a reasonablehour and made sure there was still a chunk of the day left, even when my responsibilities were complete. No more “Sorry, we’re closed,” or “We stopped serving breakfast,” or “Happy Hour ended three hours ago; your beers are $9 each again.”
This is coming from someone who only had experience with the darkest portions of the morning, when websites are conducting maintenance and the crackheads outside my window are harmonizing nicely on that song they just composed about chasing the moon through a hedge maze.
Now, mornings aren’t just the purgatorial midpoint of unconsciousness. They’re the energetic–sort of–hatchling of promise. I could start the next great American novel today (I won’t), or find a job (I wish), or suffer a debilitating injury that turns me into a superhero (Doesn’t happen in real life).
I just say this because there’s plenty of people reading this who still think mornings are for suckers. But I’m telling you: Frozen waffles are so much better when you eat them at the same time of day as the people on the box. Being up early has a sense of self-satisfaction that I usually get when I’m buying produce or repeating some intelligent thing ver batim that I read on the internet a few hours ago. There’s always that chance that maybe today will be the day I do all 90 things I assumed I could fit into a single Wednesday.
Like any ritual, or toe fungus, it grows on you.
The trick is to not let your newfound satisfaction throw you off your game. That’s exactly what the zombies are waiting for.