dear nighttime:
Hey. How are you?
Here we are together again, doing our usual things… and though you are RIGHT THERE, I wanted to write you a quick letter.
I’ve had a deeply connected relationship with you since I was a kid.
Even when I was just a miniature thing in a crib, I’d find myself oddly energized when dusk turned to dark, as though the combined twinkle of stars and city lights had suddenly found a home in my chest. When I was in my big girl bed, I’d crawl out to sit on the landing and eavesdrop on the Awake Life below. On long car trips, I’d stare out the window until 2 am, marveling at the blue-black expanse above the jagged edge of the mountains.
Bedtime was a tiny affront to my sensibilities every single evening. I didn’t want to miss a thing — who knows what would happen if I closed my eyes?
Then, when I was old enough to control my own hours, I became an official Night Owl, devoted to David Letterman and outlasting my own late-night parents.
I’ll sleep in on the weekends, I’d tell myself.
It did me well in university, this love of after-hours existence, when I had to write papers until the sun came up… or just go out with my friends to drive around nowhere in particular until 3.
I’ll sleep when I became a nine-to-fiver, I’d tell myself.
Then I was at camp, where nighttime is prank time and boys in the moonlight time and phosphorescence time. The BEST time.
I’ll sleep when the summer is over, I’d tell myself.
Then I lived on my very own, where I could yammer on the phone until all hours or watch movies at friends houses until 4 am or head out for hot wings at midnight — whatever occurred to me right then, even if I had a full day of work in the morning.
I’ll sleep when I get old, I’d tell myself.
Well, Nighttime, 34 isn’t old by any stretch of the imagination — unless you are a terrified 33 years and 364 days into your life and dreading the next click of the odometer. Once you get there, though, you realize it isn’t bad at all.
What is bad? Is how I sleep.
And it’s SO my own fault. I know it. I eat too late. I don’t have a routine. I don’t have a consistent sleep schedule. I overstimulate myself with all manner of media and conversations.
But.
Nighttime, it’s time we figured out how to make you less about the Party In My Head and more about Dudes I’m Tired Night Night Now.
It’s no longer quirky and fun to be an insomniac.
Now it shows in my eyes and my skin and my tendency to walk into walls. Now it chips at my patience and creativity and zombifies me around 4 in the afternoon. Now it makes me wonder if I will literally drive my life partner insane by tossing and turning — or worse, TYPING — while he is trying his damndest to stay That Guy Who Goes Out Like A Light When His Head Hits The Pillow.
Because you know that’s the guy I’ll have. That’s how life works!
So here it is: I’m breaking up with you.
I mean, I love you still, but it’s time we saw less of each other so I’m not such a sluggish harpy with Daytime. I still love your stars and your smells and your magic and mystery. I still love being at the beach with you or spending time with you on my deck. I do.
I just don’t think it’s going to work long-term.
But.
I think you will totally be okay without me. I know it. You’ve got plenty of company in college students and 7-11 managers and old people and paramedics and cat burglars and cops and programmers and 911 operators and new babies and moms.
They all need you to be there for them.
I just need to be elsewhere for my own sanity. And everyone else’s, too.
But promise to always stay dark and sexy… even if I’m not looking.
Your (former) true love,
Meg
