Early to Rise

I believe it was one of Ben Franklin's aphorisms that went: "early to bed early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise." Franklin also noted that: "guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days." I intend to discuss the first. Not in a philosophical sense, by debating its veracity to the human condition, but in a journalistic one: by describing the effects of its literal interpretation. Not in a scientific way, as by studying a representative sample of the population and drawing conclusions (e.g. going early to bed, but not rising early, significantly increased wisdom—as measured by IQ—and health—as measured by resting heart rate—but decreased wealth—as measured by assets), but by attempting to live such a way myself for one week in my 23rd year and keeping a journal of sorts. I have edited it for clarity and content. It follows.

Monday

The fact that millions across America are awoken by alarm clocks is not discussed often enough. But the shocking nature of its widespread acceptance is evident in the very name of the device: "alarm." Surely, it is noteworthy that the majority of a nation in peacetime and prosperity should be daily brought to a state of alarm. I feel wiser already.

Tuesday

I awoke with the birds this morning and saw the sunrise for the first time. I was the first to arrive at the office. I made the coffee; I shook the sugar-in-the-raw; I brought the donuts—I was not the first customer at the donut shop by any means but was in the early crowd. At the team meeting, I, early-bird that I am, gazed at my coworkers, at the sleep in their eyes, the split ends in their hair, their nodding incomprehension in the face of their betters, and knew them to be worms. I left work early and began to plot their downfall.

Wednesday

I woke up next to a bottle of scotch and a yellow legal pad. The scotch was gone; there were still a few sheets of paper left in the pad. The missing pages were quickly found: I had divided them between the wall—where they were neatly taped—and the floor where they were crumpled. It was 10:20. Accepting my tardiness, I called in sick and began to clean up. While collecting the wadded papers, I attempted to read those I had taped to the wall. This was difficult, and not without accident, but overall a needed distraction.

The papers on the wall were well organized, they read left to right, top to bottom, and the eye was quickly drawn to vital information by a series of arrows and exclamation marks. Unfortunately, the content did not live up to the form. I decided that the plan was not satisfactory for bringing about anything other than third-degree burns and a rash in my coworkers—the company's insurance would ensure it was insufficient to lead to anyone's downfall.

Thursday

I woke up early and decided to arrive at work on time. The extra hours I found myself with I devoted to exercise. I had not exercised in a few months, and even then, it had been years of on-and-off brief adherence to draconian regimes interspersed with months of shame and sitting. This morning's calisthenics were composed of the residue of all these my failed attempts at fitness. I undertook yoga class: inspected my carpet in downward dog, my toenails in happy baby, and one specific crack in the wall in tree pose. I then resumed training for a long-ago 5k and ran up and down the apartment stairs; the quickly fading snores of my neighbors, I answered with my ever-louder grunts. I proceeded to powerlifting. I cleaned and jerked my coffee table above my head. As the veins in my neck bulged and my lower back dangerously arched, I imagined myself a vengeful Atlas abandoning my duty and breaking the ungrateful planet over my knee.

Friday

While rising early is by no means easy, the challenges that it presents come from achievement. Virtually anyone can wake up early, although it takes sterner stuff to not suffer from success. In contrast, going to bed early has a short tail. Few remember their struggle to sleep. Yet tonight, I am struggling and certainly not sleeping.

I sought advice on the internet. At first general: "how to sleep," "do blankets help you sleep," "best sleep positions," then specific: "sleeping early," "sleeping but are not tired," "not sleeping but are not tired," until I found some information Ben Franklin had failed to put in his aphorism. Apparently, in the 18th century, it was common practice for people to wake up in the middle of the night for a sort of nighttime siesta. It was at this time that Franklin wrote his autobiography. While I am too young to write my autobiography and have not had my first sleep to earn my siesta in which to do so, I decided to read some of Ben Franklin's autobiography; soon after, I slept.

Saturday

I decided to test my wealth and wisdom by betting on horses. I would have been better off testing my health down on the track.

Sunday

Overslept.

I abandoned the regime soon after. I never did rise above my coworkers or watch their wings melt and britches chafe. I never succeeded; truthfully, I never even managed to come up with any goals. My life consisted of movements. I less man of action than action man—as I was moved across a series of childish occupations. No longer did my mind race and plot at the office, but now it peaked after work and on the weekends. I thought about television, and brunch, and my kids. I showed up to work half asleep, and nothing there ever seemed to shake me fully awake. I have very few memories from decades on the job. What memories I do have a haunting quality: water coming out of the ceiling, a coworker arrested for drug trafficking, throwing up on the photocopier screen. I still take nighttime siesta's, but they seem mainly to come at the expense of my sleep. I have finished Ben Franklin's autobiography and think his aphorisms should not be taken too seriously.