Last spring, after hazily stumbling out of my last final dazed and confused with a serious Red Bull hangover, I was more than ready for summer. I had serious plans to hit the beach by day, party by night, and become very friendly with the La Jolla P.D. — just kidding, maybe.
By the end of the summer I had made it to the beach a grand total of one time, thankfully the LJPD still have no idea who I am and if by “party,” you mean watching a combination of the Food Network and Comedy Central until 4 a.m., then I definitely “partied” hard.
As the school year loomed closer and closer, I realized that going to bed at 4 a.m. and sleeping until 1 p.m. the next afternoon just wasn’t going to fly anymore. I was no longer a freshman. It was time to grow up. Maybe I didn’t have to buy a briefcase or wear a power suit to work just yet, but mature adults have to at least be up in time for the McDonald’s breakfast menu. Thus began my long and arduous crusade to go to bed by 9 p.m.
Unfortunately, move-in day wasn’t the best choice to wage this particular war. After unpacking box after box of clothes, old posters and my childhood teddy bears — shut up, yes, they still sleep in my bed — from my tiny, two-door roadster, I wasn’t able to crawl into bed until 2 a.m.
The next night I was determined to hit the hay by 9 p.m., and this time I was more successful — barely. After a visit to the AT&T store, my roommate and I received some of the worst news college students could hear: there weren’t any technicians available to install Internet until the following Wednesday. With no Facebook, e-mail, or access to Nic Cage films via Netflix, I had nothing to do but call it an early night — though I still found ways to postpone my date with Sandman until 11:30 p.m.
At 9 a.m. the next morning I joined my friends in fliering on Library Walk. And while my friends were groggy after a late night of debauchery — and Internet — for once I hadn’t forced myself out of bed at the last possible moment, clinging desperately to what extra minutes of sleep I could catch. It was a wonderful change to be able to cook breakfast (using the word “cook” loosely), straighten my hair, and jam out to Tay-Swift before heading out the door.
That night was the closest to 9 p.m. I would get over the course of the next two weeks.
I tried. I really did.
On those rare nights when my head managed to hit the pillow before 2 a.m., all I could do was toss and turn and wonder how so many bros could possibly live in my apartment complex and want to race shopping carts up and down the street at 1:30 a.m.
Despite the one morning of waking up refreshed to the welcome sound of birds chirping, I’ve accepted that I’m 19 — not 90 — and I might as well take advantage of the years standing between me and a Denny’s senior early-bird special. And while I value sleep as much as the next overbooked-over caffeinated-college student, I wouldn’t trade in late-night reruns of the Biggest Loser for anything.
