A Broken Routine
My sleep schedule has been destroyed. It seems like I will always wake up feeling the most rested after exactly five hours of sleep, no matter what. Last night, bed didn’t cross my mind until two a.m., and here I am now: quarter after seven and I’ve got soft jazz battling with coffee aroma for dominance in this tiny room. The lack of schedule has translated into a lack of energy, and it’s something that even protein in the morning cannot fix. I thought it was my intake—two scrambled eggs weren’t enough anymore, so I bumped it up to three. It definitely helps in a certain regard, but my overall energy isn’t linked to the eggs as much as I wish it was. I think it might be time to stop kidding myself.
As with yesterday’s post, I feel like I’m again realizing my age and becoming aware of the fact that I’ve finally reached the point where I need to change habits. When I was between the ages of thirteen and seventeen, my friends and I made sport of trying to finish entire cases of soda in a single night. That was a behaviour that went out the window without a second thought, now why can’t I just “decide” to go to bed like a normal human?
If I had my way, it seems like I would nap from six until ten every single night, and then return to Slumberland at two a.m. As a creative type, this worked for fifteen years. I didn’t always get the naps, but without fail, I’d always be up in the middle of the night doing something. I have distinct memories of my dad coming down to my room at three a.m. asking me to play guitar just a little bit quieter. I have vague recollections of poetry that could only enter the world after two in the morning, filling notebooks next to sketches and other random ideas that littered the night.
Now that I’m twenty-nine going on a millennia, it’s becoming increasingly clear to me that I need to establish hard bedtimes and shift my routine into the morning. When I worked at the mascot company, I was always up early, in bed early. I got so much writing done in that period of my life because of that routine, and it’s what I crave again. I’d be in bed by ten-thirty, sleeping by eleven each night, with an average waking time of five a.m. It was heavenly, and I came to love the ease of the world. My dog behaves beautifully in the morning—a quick piss, a saunter back to the house for breakfast, and then she would curl up in the newly vacated spot in bed next to my wife. That’s it—wouldn’t see her again until noon. There’s so many parts of Sali’s personality that makes me think, over and over again, “Right. This is why we got a basset hound.” She’s the perfect writer’s dog.
Part of me already can’t wait for a nap already today. Sometimes, I’ve been known to take pre-noon naps. That’s a whirl, but today I hope I can just sustain my way through. I’ve got to kick this late-night habit somehow, and I don’t think afternoon naps are the way to do it. Being an adult and choosing to abstain from things you love to do for the greater good of your heath is the worst part of life—real talk. All I want to do is smoke cigarettes and stay up late drinking coffee forever, but it’s finally glaring to me that this part of my life is over, whether I want it to be or not. It’s now up to me to choose to move on or chose to cling pathetically to this lifestyle, wheezing and yawning my way through life.
Big thoughts for a guy who’s been up for a half hour.
See you tomorrow. Possibly even later today.