day 53: i woke up at - instead of stayed up until - 5 a.m.

A year ago I seriously thought walking to 7-Eleven for coffee constituted sufficient exercise, so I think I've earned the right to brag: last week I went to spin class at 6 a.m.

When I posted a Facebook update announcing my witching-hour workout, my old drinking buddy Joe Jay responded with the following: "Wow! The only spinning I remember at 6 a.m. was when our heads were still spinning from all those Jager shots the night before!"


Broadway at 5:30 a.m.

And yeah, that pretty much sums it up.



Despite all those old adages touting the virtues of morning - some crap about being healthy and rich, some other crap about worms - I have always found mornings to be offensive in the extreme. In addition to starting petitions to elminate Sundays and to destroy the sun to make mid-August more pleasant, my friend E. and I have also attempted to garner support for starting the day at 11 a.m.

Unfortuantely we have been continually thwarted by a rogue group of maniacs known as "morning people." These mushy-brained psychopaths are easily identifiable by their ability to smile before coffee, their insistence that "the day is half over" at 2 p.m., and the irritating, self-satisfied spring in their step when they've gotten a lot of shit done before noon.

The day I went to spin class I woke up at 5 a.m. groaning and cursing, and I arrived at the gym to discover a packed parking lot. Here they were: morning people. A lot of them. I shuffled inside half-dazed to discover people jogging on treadmills, lifting weights in front of the mirror, and doing crunches. As though this kind of behavior at this hour was normal. My brain flooded with "what the fuck," and I retreated to the bathroom to give myself a pep talk.

Eventually I tiptoed out and selected a stationary bike, and the next hour passed as though I was underwater or in a dream, or maybe a dream taking place underwater. Despite almost puking or passing out at least twice, somehow I managed to survive running, jumping, and skipping from one end of the gym to the other in between frantic bouts of pedaling on my bike. Then I went home, took a shower, passed out, and was late for work.

But, bonus: I ate and ate and ate all afternoon, and I didn't feel the least bit guilty about it.