Yup, that’s me
Mornings, to me, are like a bleach stain on a favourite shirt: something that should never be there. I should never be involved with mornings in any way. Specifically, anything active that happens before 8 am – 9 am preferably and 10 am ideally, though unrealistically – is not meant to be for me.
Which isn’t to say that I can’t “do” mornings. I did, for years. I was quite adept at pulling myself out of bed at 6 am and sometimes even sooner, dragging myself into the shower, dressing and grooming myself adequately, finding something to eat on the go, picking up my pre-packed belongings, reaching down to clumsily tie my shoelaces while cursing the night-borne tightness in my back, throwing on a jacket if the weather required it, and stumbling out the door.
In the years that I commuted to Toronto, I managed to put one foot in front of the other well enough to get to my local bus stop, where I waited for the bus that took me to the nearest GO Train station, where I boarded the train and set my still-weary body down to rest. Yes, I still desired more rest.