The Sleep People

So, there are Morning People – the kind of folks that get up before most of us and accomplish a whole mess of things before heading off for work/school/lifestyle of the independently wealthy.

And there are Night People – those who stay up until the long hours of the evening while most of the world is in bed.

And then there are my kind of people. The Sleep People. The people who go to bed early and sleep in late because they know just how amazingly butt-slapping fantastic sleep is.

As I’ve gotten older, the available window for sleeping has become smaller and smaller, which just makes me value it all the more. Sure, I could probably wake up an hour earlier and get all sorts of things accomplished before my day actual begins, but…why would I? I can totally do those things later, and this bed is warm and cozy now. And, of course, those friends with kids always go off about how, since hatching their spawn bringing bundles of joy into the world they haven’t had more than 20 consecutive minutes of sleep and NEVER WILL AGAIN. And I feel bad for them. I also don’t have kids. Win/win.

Because of this, I have managed to hone the amount of time I need to get ready in the morning to about 15-25 minutes, if need be. Do I look like a well-put-together young professional and walk out the door completely equipped for the day? Not really, but I’m presentable and can worry about the details later. And sure, on the mornings when I do wake up a little earlier, my outfit has a little more pizzazz, I usually have a lunch packed for the day and have had at least some sort of caffeinated beverage before heading out, but on those mornings when I just don’t wanna get up, I have my helpful skills:

  • Shower at night – I generally do this anyway, because the thought of going to bed with the day’s grime on me grosses me out. But it’s important to make sure your hair is completely dry, otherwise you’re going to end up with some wicked bedhead. If I was a super-cool-hipster-gal, I could probably pull it off as some intentional affectation, but on me, it just looks like I have a mental illness. Which is a good lead-in to…
  • Bobby pins – I own approximately 15667832 bobby pins, and yet have to buy them multiple times throughout the year. I’m pretty sure I leave a trail of them where ever I go, like breadcrumbs.  My boyfriend has texted me, “I found more of those fucking hair things of yours at my place. Where do they all come from?” But as someone with shorter hair and who lacks all ability to use hair styling products and tools (see future posts: “Failing at being a girl”), they are a necessity. With enough bobby pins and hair elastics, I can get my hair tamed into something that says, “Hello, I am a full-functioning adult” rather than, “Hello, I have lost all motivation in life”.
  • Wrinkle-Release Spray – I own an iron. I also own a fire extinguisher. Doesn’t mean I use them. I’m not sure what’s in the spray stuff, but I know it works and doesn’t require me having to set up an ironing board.
  • Crockpot – Packing myself a lunch is the hardest thing for me to do, ever, ever. I hate it. I can’t even think about food in the morning, and I know whatever I pack at 7:00 will make no sense at 12:00. At least if I cook something with a crockpot during the night, all I have to do is scoop some into tupperware (and by “tupperware” I mean, “reused pudding containers”) and it will be tastier/healthier than some of my past lunches, one of which consisted of a sleeve of saltine crackers and a granola bar.
  • Acceptance of the snooze button – There is seriously no greater pleasure in life than hitting the snooze button, rolling over, and snuggling back into bed. I dare you to find it. And I know exactly how many times I can hit the snooze button until I absolutely, no joking, I’m serious, have to get up. Seven times.

Of course, none of these things work if you oversleep your alarm by an hour and a half because you were up late the night before watching Winona Ryder movies on Netflix*. That’s when you run around your house in a blind panic, throw on clothes that you hope aren’t that covered in cat fur and chase after the bus.

*Mermaids is so freaking awesome, am I right? Baby Christina Ricci AND Cher?**

**Though I’m pretty sure Reality Bites is primarily to blame for my poor dating choices during my twenties. Yeah, dump the good, dependable guy with a job for some slacker who spends his days playing in a band, quoting philosophy, and not washing his hair.


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