Mourning Weakness

Mornings are difficult. I’ve always struggled to wake up, whether I’ve had five hours of sleep or ten. Most days I just want to curl up and go back to wherever I was before reality intruded. As I get older, everything aches and it takes a good five to ten minutes of stretching before I stagger to my feet. In college, I woke up at 5:30 AM every day. As the years went on, that time gradually got later as “five more minutes” of sleep compounded. Still, I don’t think I was ever late for a class.

The first job I had out of college was a five minute drive from my house. Even if I overslept, all I had to do was skip breakfast and I’d be back on track. I never did understand why our hours were 8:45-5; that extra 15 minutes may have carried over from some past edict before I joined that company, perhaps to offset people’s breaks. By my fourth year, I backslid a bit. Part of the reason was getting comfortable, but for various reasons it was no longer a pleasant environment. I couldn’t admit that for a very long time, even to myself, but it was clear in my subconscious that I was in no hurry to leave in the morning. It wasn’t until a supervisor actually spoke to me that I made an effort to get there on time. I found it sobering. I’m not that guy. I was otherwise punctual, the first to arrive at meetings and consistent in meeting deadlines. Mornings are my weakness, an archenemy that gains strength as I get older.

When I finally got out of that place and into a larger company, I took it very seriously. I didn’t want to do anything to screw up. I wore a tie for the first month I was there, even though I didn’t have to. I generally arrived anywhere from a half hour to an hour early, and after a slow first few weeks I started having the occasional late night, when a lot of printouts were required for morning meetings. Seven years wore down my new guy eagerness as I became comfortable once more. No one ever took issue with it since I continued meeting deadlines even after my workload literally doubled twice, but I didn’t like it. My drive in was very stressful, each long traffic light like worms wriggling around my spine.

It’s very hard to break out of a bad routine. I began to examine the flaws that led me down a path I didn’t enjoy, and look for things I could trim. I didn’t consider going to bed early an option, especially as late as I got home. I didn’t want my after work life to consist of dinner and an hour of television before going to sleep and returning to a place I felt like I’d just left. I needed more time to unwind at home doing my own thing. Besides, as mentioned earlier, more sleep didn’t help me wake up. Sometimes I was more tired from remaining immobile for so long. Pins and needles and cracking joints increased with downtime.

I eliminated checking my computer in the morning. That worked for a while, but my internal clock adjusted. I’d zone out while eating breakfast or taking a shower, thinking about the tasks ahead of me. Each thing I did gained 3 to 5 minutes. I tried getting up earlier. I just took even longer to get ready when I did that, and no matter what, I couldn’t get out of the house before a certain, seemingly fixed time. If I got up at 8, it took me 45 minutes to get ready, but if I got up at 7:30, it would take 75 minutes to get out the door.

With my new job, I knew the pressure would be on once more. Once more I’d be the new guy, eager to be perfect. I can’t say I’ve ever been as late as I was at times at my previous job, but it’s been a struggle to do much better than five to ten minutes late. I’ve tried every thing I could think of. I wake up earlier. I don’t go online in the morning. I’ve tried alternate routes to work to evade consistently bad traffic patterns. I hate that in the past two months, I haven’t been early once. No one complained, but I dreaded the day that someone did. I don’t want to be that guy, or at this point admit to myself that I’ve become that guy since college.

Finally, a day arrived with unquestionable motivation. Thursday brought with it a dreaded 9 AM meeting. It takes at least 30 minutes to get to work. I knew the best route at this point, and how long I had for each step in my morning ritual. I knew when I had to wake up, how many bowls of cereal I could have, how long I could shave, and more. It was the first perfect morning since I began, the first morning I can honestly say I did everything right. What were the odds if I left with an extra five minutes to spare that I’d still get to work late?

35 minutes should have been more than enough time. I didn’t count on there being more traffic that early, nor could I have anticipated construction on a Thursday when I’d had three days of clear sailing. I think the exact moment my brain said, beaming, “I’m gonna make it!”, is the exact moment fate twisted and a sea of brake lights lit up before me. I didn’t panic though. I knew I’d left early, and up to the point where everything suddenly stopped, I was actually making exceptionally good time, even shaving off a few minutes. I’d have to sit in traffic a good ten minutes before I had to worry.

Eight minutes later, I made it to an intersection and made my right turn, noting the construction had I continued on the road I was on. Now it was clear sailing once more, at least until I found myself behind a bus while going over a one lane bridge. Then there were two tractor trailers alongside each other, keeping pace. I couldn’t believe they were headed to the same isolated area as my office. I ran in when I finally arrived, still only six minutes late. I unlocked my door, grabbed a notepad and didn’t even turn on my computer, continuing on to the conference room. The one thing I could count on was that the meeting hadn’t started yet. I’ve been on time to every meeting, always the first to arrive, and always waiting for people. Even then, there’s a good five minutes of small talk. If people couldn’t start a meeting on time at 3 PM, 9 AM couldn’t be any different, could it?

Of course, everyone was already there, a few pages into the work that at least I’d thankfully printed the night before and left with my writer. I slipped in quietly, and quickly caught up. I looked up at the wall clock and felt a twinge of pain. I tried, I had honestly tried, and I still failed. The rest of the day kept me busy with corrections from the meeting and two other projects, and I didn’t have time to obsess over it.

Around 4:30, my boss stopped by. He was smiling, but he’s a pretty cheerful guy, and I wasn’t surprised by what came next. Normally he didn’t have a problem with people getting in a little late, and he said I’ve certainly shown I’m willing to put in extra time to get the work out. Normally he wouldn’t say anything about it, but on a morning when there’s a meeting first thing, I definitely should have been there. He was very nice about the whole thing, but my own disappointment in myself stung like a punch to the gut, and obvious he was aware I’d been late before. I apologized, worked an extra hour even after he left for the day, mostly out of guilt, and I couldn’t think about anything else on the ride home.

What could I have done differently? I went to bed early. I woke up early. I was fast and efficient, took less than an hour, and I left earlier than I needed to leave. It’s killing me. My dad always allows extra time for traffic whenever he has to be somewhere by a certain time. I couldn’t have predicted what I’d encounter, and that’s the exact reason I should have left even 15 minutes sooner. It baffles me that I know what I have to do, that it’s no mystery, but I can’t seem to move fast enough. Somehow, there’s a mathematical solution. If it takes me ten minutes to get out of bed, and I need to leave ten minutes earlier, then I actually have to start waking up 20 minutes sooner going forward. And therein lies another thing that gnaws at me about Thursday; the meeting weighed so heavily on my brain that I kept dreaming about it and waking up in a panic, thinking I’d overslept. Had I stayed up at 6:45 instead of looking at my cell phone clock and rolling over, the day would have played out differently. Maybe it played out the way it needed to though. After all, just because I was spoken to on the one day it wasn’t my fault doesn’t change all those other days when it was. Maybe this will be the motivation that accelerates the transition from bed to desk.

I hate mornings. Snooze will be the death of me yet, and it’s going to be very embarrassing when I’m late for my own funeral.