They say that opposites attract. What they don’t say is what happens then. Case in point: What happens when your spouse is a morning person, and you are, well, not.
Though he bristles under the characterization, I’m going to come out and say it. My man is downright chipper in the morning. He’s hopping around (yes, I mean literally hopping around), singing songs, and chittering away excitedly: about the day to come, the day past, this movie he saw, or that one time when he was ten. He wakes up this way. Almost immediately.
In stark contrast, I need to be eased into my day. When the alarm goes off, I spend 20-30 minutes laying in bed and staring at the ceiling. I use this valuable time to catalog dreams from the past night, think contemplatively on events from the previous day, and to look ahead to what I think will happen that day.
Then I spend about 30 minutes staring at the shower walls. I think about conversations I had, conversations I might have, and what I’m going to wear that day. Then I sit on the couch, eat breakfast, and stare at the television (on or not, it really doesn’t matter). At that point I’m pretty much just spacing out, trying not to think of the day ahead. The commute itself is another opportunity for me to space out or daydream, though I’m required to hold a little more focus as I’m driving or walking to the train.
By the time I arrive at work in the morning, I’m ready to interact with real people. I can do so without losing track of what they say, tuning them out in favor of replaying a particularly good dream, or grunting instead of using actual words as a reply.
I’m normally allowed the quiet contemplativeness of my own morning routine, as Charles has a completely opposite sleeping and work schedule from me. But a few months ago, Charles had the opportunity to work with me as a freelancer. Our morning routines were suddenly enmeshed, our commute to the same place, in the same vehicle.
I was no longer spared the sunniness of my husband’s disposition in the morning. Waking up together felt like walking out into blinding sunlight from the sweet darkness of a cool cave. When I wanted to stare at the ceiling over our bed, he wanted to tell me, "Good morning, sunshine!" Where I wanted to sit on the couch and stare into space, he wanted to talk or sing to me. I was expected to participate in these conversations. Or at least acknowledge them.
He held nothing back. He told me on the many occasions he would classify me as cranky. If I wasn’t cranky, he’d ask if I heard him, or what was wrong. If I didn’t react at all, or minimally, he would ask why I wasn’t cranky. I felt exposed, my every word, grunt, or mood under scrutiny. But I couldn’t help who I was in the morning.
One of the many times this was under discussion in our house, Charles came out with this gem, “Well, I’m sorry you’re not a fully fledged human being in the morning!”
“I know! I am, too. But there’s nothing I can do about it!”
“Ha! You admit it! You just said you’re not a fully fledged person in the morning!”
“Well, technically you said it and I agreed.”
“I’m saying.”
“That’s fine.”
“I’ll remember.”
Thing is, he did remember, enough to tell everyone we know about me not being a fully fledged person. But, it didn’t change the way the man approached me in the morning. He still sang. He still talked. He still hopped. He still expected me to be a fully fledged person.
Now his contract with my work has ended, and I have my mornings back. The first week Charles had off, he basked in the freedom of not having to be anywhere on his days off work. And I luxuriated in my silence, my ability to stare into space.
