The early bird gets the worm

At least, that is the age-old adage. It is what many Oxford students, often cast as the ‘ambitious type’, will have heard time and time again. Whether it be early entry undergraduate applications or job interviews, we as a society are obsessed with being first at everything, and those who are first are, inevitably – so we are told – successful. However, while this may just be symptomatic of the world we live in, there is one race that I will never compete for first place in: that of waking up first.

Let me just clarify: I am, resoundingly, not a morning person. The precise moment at which my alarm clock begins to beep and my phone begins to buzz is, without fail, the worst of my day. Add a grey sky, cold room, and soft duvet to the mix, and I think few would dare suggest I am overexaggerating.

Then comes the slog: snooze, snooze, snooze, but eventually it has to be time to get out of bed and, in the murkiness of the delightful British autumn, start my day. It is a process certainly not unfamiliar to any student, but one made all the more pertinent today, when the proverbial ‘early bird’ has become an even greater icon of success than it has been before. More than ever, too, we have become obsessed with maximising our productivity in every aspect of our lives, streamlining our time to push our busyness to its capacity.

This busyness is certainly no stranger to an Oxford student, for whom ‘doing everything’ is not so much a choice as it is a doctrine. Inscribed in early sporting commitments, the morning essay deadline and 9am lecture are, inevitably, alarms variously beginning with a seven, six, or even five. This is often supplemented with copious amounts of coffee and usually makes for a begrudging start to the day.

For some, however, this is the ideal lifestyle: an early night, an early start, and an undeniable sense of achievement obtained before the sun has even peeled back its sheets, and ditched the pyjamas. It is a way of life sustained by the modern cult of productivity, in which the very act of doing is an invaluable social currency that feels impossible to escape. In our desperation for constant advancement, we capitalise on the doing of everything. We are told that two cooked breakfasts, a workout, meditation, a walk, coffee, and the completion of all our work is possible before the (I would argue still early) hour of 10am, and, honestly, I am sceptical.

Some call the discipline necessary to engage in this morning routine ‘self-improvement’, but it can hardly fail to be self-destructive in the immensity of its expectation. I don’t know about you, but I will not be making any seismic decisions before breakfast. In fact, it is unlikely I will have even decided what I’ll be wearing. Perhaps this is narrow-minded, for there is an undeniable (if egotistical) reward in being able to reel off the imposing list of tasks you completed all while your friends and family slept, letting the early bird start hunting.

However, I cannot help but doubt this 5am alarm and the gloating that accompanies it. Under constant pressure that this is the right, the healthy, the committed, and the successful way of life, it is impossible for guilt not to shadow those who hesitate to admit that no, they have not ‘done’ anything yet, even though it is 11am. There is a certain shame in accepting you haven’t ‘achieved’ anything yet with your day, and one that is only exacerbated by the cacophony of blaring opinions on social media and ‘productivity guidelines’, in which we are baited with success, and teased with the ever superior successes of others.

Perhaps this comes only as some form of self-vindication for the many days that I, red-faced, have admitted to having wasted my morning, those precious hours in which time is endless and potential is limitless. And yet, I do not seem to be alone in this feeling, and we are not scientifically unjustified in it, either. It is an uncontested fact that circadian rhythm changes with age, and is set to a later schedule in the years of twenties and teenagedom, meaning it is only natural to sleep later, and to wake later in accordance. Studies have proven not only this, but also that students’ performance in cognitive activities (such as taking exams) is better at 1.30pm, than either 9am or 4.30pm.

Bolstered by such evidence, this unmatched productivity and glamour of the early morning is marred: while the choice of some, this obsession with the early hours is unfounded as a miracle solution to the perfect life, and its propaganda is not enough to tempt me. After all, while so often confounded by our academic environment, there is much more to our day than the achievements perceived as ‘productive’ in the traditional sense. Although a midnight essay crisis is a situation where I know I’m not alone, the evening often lies in wait with open arms for so much more. Social events, in particular, are usually hosted in the evening, stretching into the hours of the night. Evenings are not exempt, either, from those pursuits typically associated with the morning. It is only at the cost of these evening hours that the early bird can rise.

I imagine that I will always be a night owl, taking advantage of the dying light for everything that can be achieved before dawn, and more. While this avian foil is the most well-known image, the appended ending of the early bird proverb is an even greater favourite of mine: “The early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.” Perhaps some of us will never be first to the mark, chased by the growing light, but we should all take our rewards when they come, without rising to an impossible standard of what is productive or admirable, for there is no shame in choosing to bide our time, and rising, if just a little later.