I've always loved getting up early. When I was in sixth grade, my sister dared me not to wake up before 7. I would be getting up before my sister-whose school started nearly an hour before mine- and that trend has not changed much since I was 11.  Last week, my alarm was set for 6:30 as usual and I was going to be picked up for a meeting at 8. I figured that would give me ample time to read, have breakfast, put away laundry, drink my coffee, and mentally wake up before interacting with other people.

My phone rang. It was my friends calling to tell me they were running late. I asked if that meant they were still at home, and they said that they were on the road but traffic was moving slowly. I looked at the time and my clock said 7:57. Shoot. Naturally, I sprinted around the house trying to find my clothes in the basket that I had not put away, threw the various things I needed for the meeting into my bag, all the while my cat was meowing and looking at me like "Why aren't you paying attention to me? Love me!" and finally pulled on my boots as my phone rang informing me that my friends had arrived.  Four hours and three cups of coffee later, I had yet to shake the tired, fuzzy feeling from my head.

And that, my friends, is why I wake up so early.