It Hurts Me

When I booked my 9am flight to San Francisco, I knew it would be painful. When I confirmed with the airline that I should arrive two and a half hours before my flight, I flinched. When I reserved my 5:30am pickup by the shuttle service, I had a sinking feeling.

But, oh, when my alarm went off at 4:20am ... that was the worst of all. What is this strange dark morning I'm observing? The last time I saw 5am was the morning JG and I left for Ocean City, NJ, but I sure don't remember that trip, between my periods of nodding off. For this little excursion, I have to have the wherewithall to progress through all of the airport lines without dropping my e-ticket, misplacing my ID, or flipping over my roller bag. I'm not very good at the airport juggle, but I'm guessing that getting two-thirds of my normal amount of sleep won't help.

There was a time when I saw the early morning. I worked at a summer camp for two summers during college; we had to be up and at 'em bright and early, and I managed. Minus the bright. It was more of rolling out of bed, grabbing the first shirt and shorts I could see in the hazy blueness of my bunk, and staggering outside into the misty air to the long walk to the dining hall for breakfast. Or at least, it seemed long.

Ah, well, what can you do? I'd rather be sitting and waiting for my flight rather than standing in a line and wondering if I'll make it, so this being up early nonsense is definitely the lesser evil. It's still evil, though.