It's not about getting a worm.

Yesterday, I got up at 5:30. I have to tell you about this, because it was the best. morning. EVAR.

It was an amazing morning.

First, I have to back up a little and tell you how I spent my Saturday morning. Friday, my lovely husband Chris showed up unexpectedly to take me out to lunch (and tell me he’d just been diagnosed with type 2 diabetes).

Just before he left for a 24 hour men’s retreat with our very cool church.

So, I had a lot of time on my hands, and a whole lot on my mind, which is often not a great thing.  I’m an enneagram 4, and when we have a lot of time on our hands and a lot of heavy stuff on our minds, we start creating stories in our heads about what’s going to happen.  Usually not happy stories.  Usually stories where we are the tragic hero(ine) of a big, weepy, Charlotte Bronte sort of tale.  

So I did what I always do when I’m stressed and actually have the presence of mind to do what I’ve learned works best for dealing with my stress: a whole BOATLOAD of housework.  (Note:  I’m exercising tremendous restraint, because “boat” was not the first word that came to mind when writing this.   Just saying.)

Just so you know, it’s not so much housework per se that helps me with my stress.  It can be any kind of constructive, physical activity.  But usually, the most abundant constructive physical activity I have around is housework.

So anyway, I spent Saturday morning tackling Phase 2 of Spring Cleaning, which is to say, I cleaned and rearranged the furniture in my bedroom. 

I have to say, it was pretty gross.  Stuff sort of accumulates under one’s bed over time.  Plus, our vacuum died, and because I was emotionally attached to it, it took me forever to start using the new hepa-thingy that Chris bought me to replace it.  

We just got some lovely new bedding the previous weekend.  Honestly, it’s a miracle I ever get out of bed in the morning, because my bed is now so damn amazingly comfortable, that I would probably live there in some weird John Lennon and Yoko Ono fake protest if I thought I could get away with it.  

So I got the room cleaned, and I feng shui’d the furniture so now we have ample space to exercise and do yoga and practice guitar and things.  The space just feels so clear and healthy and open.  Ready to be the setting of good things to come.  

So Monday morning, I got up at 5:30, like I have intended to do for probably about a year now.  I made some decaf chai.  I read Judges chapter 4 (Deborah rocks, and it turns out, Barak is a biblical name after all.)  I did my Morning Pages.  I worked out for about a half hour with the Wii Fit.  I was much nicer than usual to my family, probably because I wasn’t rushed at all.  I had time to stop at one of my favorite coffee shops and have a decaf cappucino and write yesterday’s blog post on my way to work.  

Once I got to work, something just sort of hit me like a ton of bricks.  

I had already done everything I really wanted to do for that day.

The getting up early thing?  It’s so not about trying to cram more hours in a day, or get more done, or become a more efficient Type A personality, or chase more white rabbits.  

It’s paying yourself first, with the currency that is so much more meaningful than cash these days: time.  

I love my job.  It’s a fantastic fit in nearly all respects.  But I’d be lying if I didn’t say I sometimes feel the same icky, cruddy resentment towards it that most 9 to 5 folks do.  

But getting up early meant that by the time I got to work, everything I wanted to do was already done.  I knew that I wasn’t going to promise myself I’d do that stuff when I got home, only to be too darn tired, or to find that Chris or the kids or someone else needed something from me that was more urgent than doing what I wanted to do.  Getting what I wanted out of the day first meant  I didn’t have to resent what I gave to others.

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