When I was in my twenties a friend instituted the 10 o'clock rule. Translated loosely, it meant don't you dare f***in' call me before 10 on the weekend. I think in our thirties it was modified to the 9 o' clock rule, after all who can sleep that late anymore (except maybe my sister Liz)? I'm not sure the rule exists in any form these days. Maybe simply because that's not what we do anymore: wake up first thing and need to talk to a friend. And if you do hear from one early, chances are she probably really needs to talk and rules are out the window anyway.
Over the past couple of years I have imposed an 8 o'clock rule on myself that has nothing to do with phone calls. As I have come to value eight hours of sleep, which makes me a better person but also makes for an early bedtime during the week--given that I have to wake up at the ungodly hour of 5:30 and begin work at 7, sometimes driving to school in the dark--I have also come to appreciate that on weekends those eight hours needn't occur between 9pm and 5am. Although I am rarely up until midnight on the weekend, I insist that I stay in bed until 8, even if for the last hour my eyes are open and I'm appreciating my sheets. Clearly this is decadent (and the envy of all women with young children) when, say, I went to bed at 10 the night before, and it means I'm getting 10 hours of sleep! Hey, someone throw me some bon bons!
This morning I woke up at 6:27. As I did yesterday. By 7:22 I was done appreciating my sheets. For that hour I lay there with the sun coming through my skylight, I thought about my day and what I need to get done before my cousin Donna gets here for a relaxing day by the pool. And it occurred to me that I was rested, so it was okay to get up and make guacamole and cucumber salad, stock the fridge with water and make ice, unload the dishwasher and run the vacuum. I'll get more rest by the pool later today.
Another rule bites the dust.