Despite the weather shitshow that Portland has seemed intent on delivering lately — it’s April, why are we having to deal with snow showers and the temperature dropping below freezing seemingly every night? — it is, nonetheless, still edging towards summer, and my body is clearly preparing for this eventuality by refusing to keep me asleep past 5:45am.
This isn’t the worst thing in the world, I know; at the very least, I’ve been able to see some genuinely beautiful sunrises, as the sky shifts through colors in order to find the right setting for the day, all soundtracked by insistent and excited birdsong. There’s something about that being the start to your day that feels refreshing and invigorating, as if the world is waking up with you and you’re connected with something larger than yourself. I’m not complaining about that part of it.
I’m also not complaining about the opportunity waking up early has afforded me to both catch up on reading and, in a couple of cases, catch up on or get ahead of writing deadlines. There’s been a lot going on in the last few weeks, and even just that extra hour or so has proven to be a welcome godsend of quiet and brain space that’s been impossibly useful.
No, what I’m complaining about is the price my early wake-ups have taken from me. Now, no matter what, I am entirely done with the day by 10 o’clock at night; 10:30 at the latest. I don’t just mean that I’m sleepy, although I am; I mean that my body just basically makes the choice for me that the day is over, and I realize that I have maybe half an hour to get into bed before I’m out like a light.
It’s not as if I’ve ever really been a night owl, but this feels like next level tiredness, and a reminder that I’m that little bit closer to 50 every single day. Only old people are this tired at night, I think to myself as I start wrapping things up at 9:30 in the evening, and that’s just what I am, now.