Some time ago, I wrote about the growing scientific evidence that some of us are genetically predisposed to being night owls, while others are struck with a weird urge to be up at the crack of dawn.
I’m not the most night-owlish person I’ve ever known (I once rang Jello Biafra at 4pm his time — and got him out of bed) but I’m rarely under the covers before midnight. I find myself pretty productive in the 10pm-midnight slot.
But the idea of getting up at 4am to work is frankly mystifying, not to say terrifying.
I’m writing this column at 4 a.m […]
I’m awake because over the past two years, I’ve joined a new club: the very, very early morning club. I know a lot of people have lives and jobs that require them to wake up extremely early, but this is a new lifestyle for me. It took two small children and one pandemic that kept us all home to figure out that if I was going to continue to be productive, and write nonsense humor columns like this one, I was going to need to be productive at an uncommon hour, sitting alone in the dark.
Dude, what is wrong with you?
Staying up late is out of the question. Sure, I used to be able to do it when I was younger, have a cup of Dunkin’ at 9 p.m. and slug it out, but these days, asking me to stay up to watch the 11 p.m. news is like asking me to climb K2. “Saturday Night Live” actually live, on Saturday night? That’s something that hellions do.
Plus, my brain is fried by midafternoon. Honestly: Tell me anything after 3 p.m. and you should make me scribble it on my arm. As for my writing, everything I write after 1 p.m. looks like a ransom note written by miniature horses. I mean, more than it usually does.
Okay… dammit, now I’m curious. Because, yes, afternoons are my kryptonite, too. Whereas a nanna-nap at 4pm is the second-most blissful thing I can think of to do lying down (and, let’s be honest, far more likely to happen).
But 4 a.m.? At that hour, I’m sharper. I’m never going to be one of those executive types who wakes up at 4 a.m. for sunrise yoga or meets a trainer for air squats and a 45-minute sprint on a treadmill, but I can summon the energy to wander into the kitchen, make coffee, and plop myself into a chair and type nouns and verbs at a keyboard.
The benefits are obvious: My home is quieter, as is the world, and my head. Nobody’s reaching out to me at 4 a.m. Email has slowed to a halt. Texts are nonexistent. Emergencies are waiting until 8 a.m. It’s just me, the thoughts sloshing around my mind, and the low hum of the refrigerator. I can actually feel my brain moving around inside of my head, excitedly.
Hmm. Against my every instinct, I’m being won over.
Hunter S. Thompson wrote of long phone conversations at 4am, and “that special breed who work the wires” between midnight and dawn. Maybe he was onto something.
There are drawbacks, of course. My body has fully reset itself. By midmorning I’m looking for lunch. Midafternoon, I’m ready for dinner. I find myself craving a nap, and it’s not that shocking for me, the kids and Humphrey to pass out collectively by 8 p.m. If my wife wants to plan a dinner with friends, I have to prepare my body like an astronaut.
It’s worth it. Lately, I’ve begun to wonder: Do I dare join the 3 a.m. club?
The Wall Street Journal
Oh, hell, naw! There are some Rubicons that should not be crossed, buddy.
