By this time in the evening, I am super excited that I get to go to bed. This was not always the case, because when I was young, I (clearly unlike every other normal child in the world) felt I was missing out when I was packed off to bed at approximately 4:30 pm. This may be a mild exaggeration, but I do remember still hearing my friends playing outside, while I scrunched my eyes shut in an effort to keep the still-shining daylight from streaming into my wide-awake eyes.

What a good cat (Minnette the 2nd).

Now, it’s a different story. I LOVE going to bed. Sleep is awesome. I function best on somewhere between 7–8 hours per night. I made it through my entire MBA convinced that I was one of that rare breed that needs only 5–6 hours to get by at peak performance. It’s amazing what your mind can convince your body of, when it needs to get tricky. Shortly after defending my thesis, I began to wonder why I was so upset and angry/sad all the time.

I began The Great Sleep Experiment, in which I got no less than 7 hours sleep and discovered many things about myself. One of the key learnings was that I cry way less, about far fewer things, when I’m getting adequate sleep. Life, it turns out, was secretly being awesome, but I’d been too sleep-deprived to realize.

Now, I put sleep first. Sometimes, it means I miss my morning exercise, which sucks and makes me resentful, but at least I have a good reminder to hit the sack earlier the next night. I’ve said this before, but if Bridesmaids taught me anything (and I was just as shocked to learn it had as you are, reading this), it was that I am indeed my own problem, and my own solution.

Which leads me to my next point: I should really not save my blogging until I am about to go to bed. I’m gonna try something different tomorrow. We’ll see how it goes…