I am not a morning person. I have never been a morning person, and I do not want to be one when I grow up.
This body only knows one 5 o'clock, and it's most definitely not in the "A.M."
I just don't get the appeal of morning. Sure, I know, the idea of morning sounds good to me, too: the sun coming up, facing a new day, the birds singing melodiously outside your bedroom window.
But in reality, it's blinding sunlight invading my personal space and some loudmouth featherheads screeching off key while I'm trying to snuggle with Baxter in our nice warm bed.
I say give me the night. I can paint your barn at midnight. Watch a late show. See the stars. Enjoy a sunset.
But a sunrise? You're on your own.
I've come to terms with this fact about myself, and I've made peace with it.
My friends haven't.
They tell me, "The early bird gets the worm!" Fine. I'm happy for him. I never cared much for worms anyway. They have an aftertaste.
I prefer the adage "The second mouse gets the cheese." I've always liked cheese.
"You can train yourself to be a morning person!" they tell me. OK, setting aside those pesky things known as reason and logic long enough to assume I'd want to engage in such an experiment, I don't believe it's a good plan to attempt.
Go ahead, knock yourself out, but you can't make chicken salad out of chicken feathers.
Which brings me to this past weekend when a couple of buddies spent the night at my place. Saturday was the opening day for my West Coast gal pal's booth at the Bentonville Farmers Market where she was to showcase her fermented vegetables. Our friend, Ally, and I agreed to help her on her first day.
After the dazzling fireworks display at Orchard's Park, we walked back to my place and settled in for the night, where we discussed the expectations for the next morning.
The market is open from 7 a.m.-1 p.m. I live one block from the square, so I planned to awake at 6:52 a.m.
Nope. The Morning People planned to arise at 5:20 a.m.
Seems Ally has a feeding schedule and apparently turns into something dark and mysterious if not fed promptly upon rising. And West Coaster was excited about her first day and was anxious to get everything set up just right.
Morning arrived seemingly four minutes after this conversation. My friends awoke chipper and full of words. I rolled out of bed in zombie-like fashion and silently stood in the doorway of my bedroom.
Now, my place is small. Real estate agents would affectionately call it "cozy." You can't escape one another in two rooms. I assume out of habit and not sheer malice, West Coaster turned on an overhead light.
Swoosh!! I saw nothing but a white screen. I nearly fell back.
The natural born enemy of the Night Owl is the Morning Person. All I heard was laughter.
I went to my closet and emerged again, this time wearing sunglasses, which I wore while throwing bacon into the oven to burn, ahem, cook.
After what turned out to be a lovely, albeit exhausting day at the market, I have decided to petition Downtown Bentonville Inc., to rethink its hours. Cabbages and cauliflower don't know it's 7 a.m. I bet if you ask them, they'd be amenable to hanging out on the square from noon 'til 6 p.m. Vegetables are nice that way.
Next week, I'm frying worms.
Commentary on 07/10/2014