Monthly Archive for November, 2009

It’s NaBloPoMo Day 27!

Today’s confession: I am a Night Owl. In a perfect world, I’d get up at the crack of Noon.

If given a choice between getting up early to do something or staying up late to do it, I will choose the late-night version. Hands. Down.

In a former life, I was forced to be a morning person. I needed to be presentable and agreeable before the crack of dawn. I did it because I had to, but not because I wanted to. You do the things you have to do when you have to do them so that one day you can do the things you want to do when you want to do them.

What I lacked in genuine civility and cheer, I made up for in caffeine. The result was the same, and no one knew that I was really a Night Owl in An Early Bird’s feathers. I did what I had to do, and when I could move on, I did so at the speed of light.

They say the Early Bird gets the worm, and I’ve always felt sorry for those poor worms.

If you must know, in a perfect world, I’d get up around 11am to start my day. Lunch would be my breakfast. I’d do what I needed to do during the daylight hours, and then at the end of a “normal day,” after dinner and some quality time with my loved ones, I could easily write [or play on the Internet] into the wee hours of the morning.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

But, it doesn’t work that way. Morning comes when it comes, regardless of when I’ve crawled into bed. We were blessed with a child that sleeps late into the morning, but even my optimum schedule is too unrealistic. Domestic obligations will not allow me to have the schedule I want, but we do run on a later schedule than most, so I really can’t complain. It works for us.

People assume that Night Owls can’t sleep, that we’ve got some sort of problem that keeps us awake. Maybe some are like that, but I’m not. I don’t suffer from insomnia. I can sleep if I want to; I just don’t want to. I find other things to do at midnight and beyond.

The house is wonderfully quiet at that hour, and I can focus, the words slipping from my mind, through my fingers, onto the keyboard, and appearing on my monitor. I’m not interrupted in my projects by a wonderful helper, and even the kitties are asleep. The juggling I do during the day is put on hold, the different colored balls resting in the basket labeled “Tomorrow.” They’ll be waiting to be picked up where we left off.

I’ve adjusted to getting my work done in the midst of sunlit chaos, too, but there is something so magical about the new hours of the morning, the hours just after midnight. These dark, fertile hours don’t really belong to the day before, and they’re not yet claimed by the day to come.

Only the Night Owls know where to find this magic, and it is awesome.

Even the Early Birds aren’t awake yet at that hour, so the worms are safe for at least a little while longer.

It’s NaBloPoMo Day 23!

Today’s confession: If you don’t show up when you said you would, I’ll assume you’re dead in a ditch somewhere.

Ten years ago, my husband went on one of his mondo-hiking trips with the guys. This wasn’t one of those little car-camping trips we’ve done; this was a “strap all your belongings on your back, hike 8-miles into base camp, and be gone for a week” kinda of trips.

He’d told me that he’d be home on Sunday around 1pm. “Maybe we can have lunch together?” he’d said.  I hadn’t asked a specific time, but it was nice to have one.

1pm rolled around, and there was no sign of them. 3pm rolled around, and I went ahead and ate without him. (I was just sure that I’d finish my lunch just as he walked in, and that would be so rude of me!) 5pm rolled around and I was beside myself with worry. 9pm rolled around and I was just sure he was dead in a ditch somewhere. I’d told myself that if he had miraculously survived the crash, I’d kill him with my bare hands.

It was right around that time that he got home.

I was livid. I was so glad he was safe, but angry that he’d made me feel so helpless. This was back before cell phones were terribly prominent and the coverage was terrible. Still.  You couldn’t stop and make a simple phone call?  You couldn’t tell me you were running horribly late?  He’d forgotten that he’d told me 1pm. He couldn’t understand why I was so upset.

He just didn’t get it. He was home on Sunday, so what was the big deal? The big deal was he’d given me a specific time-frame, and I actually adhere to those. It’s disrespectful to be late. If there are extenuating circumstances, call! Let the person waiting know! Don’t just waltz in and then act all confused as to why she’s angry.

If I’m late (to anything!) I feel terrible. One of my biggest pet peeves is when people disrespect others by being late. I try my hardest not to be one of those people.

My being angry at him didn’t mean I was trying to control his life. I mean, I’m not the boss of him. I don’t care when he gets back from his trips.  It doesn’t bother me that he goes on these trips without me. In fact, I’m glad he goes on trips without me. Everyone needs something that is their own.

I only care when it conflicts with my expectations. Get back at 1pm or get back at 9pm; I don’t care. But, don’t tell me you’ll be back by 1pm and then get in at 9pm.  If you’re 8 HOURS late, I’ll assume the worst. I can’t stop it. It’s part of my Midwestern genes.

Tell me you’ll be back “on Sunday.” Don’t give me a specific time.  Give yourself a HUGE window to hit, and I’ll be fine. Give me a specific time, and I’ll hold you to it. I have no choice. I don’t make the rules of perfectionism. They make me.

He finally understood why I was upset or at least pretended to long enough to apologize profusely. I forgave him, but I’ve never let him forget it. The next year they went on their trip (they’ve gone almost every year since), the guy planning it pulled me aside and gave me specific information. He told me where the trailhead was, what the ranger station was, and the best number to reach the ranger. He said they’d be back “sometime” on Sunday. But, then he added that if they weren’t back by 3am on Monday morning to call the rangers and give them their information. He explained which trails they were taking but that they alter that on the fly, and that there’s no way to know an exact route in the backcounry. I told him that I totally understood that, and I appreciated the information.

My husband actually learned from what had happened the year before and was very careful in managing my expectations.  “We’ll be back on Sunday.  Probably,” he said with a smile.

And, whatdoyaknow? Again, he arrived after 9pm, but this time, he wasn’t late. He was right on time. Go figure.