I hate mornings. They are the worst part of my day.
All through college, I've had a reputation of sleeping through my 7 am alarm despite having people two rooms away wake up, curse me, abuse me and get back to sleep. Many morning lectures have been missed and many hours have been spent at the end of every month wondering if my lack of attendance will finally get me kicked out of college. And yet, I've slept on and slept through many more cozy mornings.
On Saturday, I woke up to a phone call at 6 am. I do not know how this phenomenon happened, neither does anyone else who has heard of this occurrence. Most think it is mere hearsay and is not based on fact. Nonetheless, sure as night follows day and day follows night and my hatred for mornings persist through rain and sunshine, I woke up at the crack of dawn to the sound of John Mayer calling out to me.
I was to meet a friend at 7.30 for breakfast. I know the appropriate thing to do is give up the friendship than get up to meet someone that early, but since I was already up, I figured what the hell. So I did all the mundane things that need to be done in the mornings and I lay back in bed, looking out of the window, waiting for my friend to call again.
It was the loveliest feeling. The light that streamed in through the windows increased as the minutes ticked on and my bed sheet felt softer and cozier than it ever had. All I wanted to do was curl into a happy ball and doze off, but I blinked the sleep away knowing that staying awake would somehow feel much better than drifting off.
I had a brilliant Saturday that stretched on for 22 hours. But somehow, the best part of my day were those minutes spent lying awake in bed, at an absurdly early hour, without knowing what lay ahead and yet, waiting for it all to unfold.