I once resolved, at three in the morning, to rise with the sun and run five miles as the first step in a renewed effort at athletic excellence. It seemed obvious at the moment for me to set my alarm for six in the morning—and it seemed even more obvious, once it rang, for me to shut it off immediately and roll back into the warmth of my bedding. I ended up getting out of bed closer to six at night, and I do not need to tell the reader whether I ever got around to jogging those five miles. I succumbed, as we all do, to the fantastical visions of self-reform that possess us during sleepless nights and then leave us the next morning.
It is a very normal thing for humans to make vows they will never keep, especially at night. We all want to be better people—more accomplished, more respected, more loved, better looking, stronger, healthier—and the task of becoming one never seems easier than it does late at night, when we are most removed from the realities of everyday life. From this hour spring the loftiest ambitions. Hours of staring into the darkness of the ceiling compel us into a profound meditation, in which the trivial concerns with which we daily concern ourselves recede before our greatest purposes. It is easy to suppress our dreams in the business of the day, almost impossible in the stillness of night. Nocturnal solitude alerts us to the time we waste.
The lifelong alcoholic will pledge total temperance, the high school benchwarmer will devise a regiment that will propel him to the NFL and the traveler decides that she is going to learn French—all of whom take their ambitions completely seriously. They think they have become new people, only to wake up as their same old selves. In due time, they are reminded of the sweetness of whiskey, of the athleticism of professional football players and of the difficulty in making it beyond the word “Bonjour.” Reality sets in. They realize that, though they were awake for most of the night, they were dreaming the whole time. They chuckle at the absurdity of the goals they set. And yet, come the next sleepless night, their plans are no less grand, their confidence no less high.
I do not think this is a bad thing. Humans are perceptually torn between their reason and their imagination. Thankfully, the first governs most of the time. But we would become robots if we did not indulge the other every once in a while. If it is to enjoy a healthy life, the caged bird must be let out every now and then to fly around, so the human must be spared a few moments, when the mood takes him, to betray his reason.
This necessity is recognized in the tradition of making New Year’s Resolutions, which are upheld with about the same fidelity as midnight fancies. It is the same process, just on a larger scale. People will spend their entire adult lives making the same vows every December and breaking them every January without ever giving up the practice. They await every ensuing year with the same, if not more, anticipation. Does it make any difference, in the end, whether a man goes to the gym for a few days in the first week of every January, or never goes at all? In regard to his fitness, no. But the brief attempt replenishes his spirit, which is more important, in many ways, than the body.
My imagined 5 miles gave me similar relief, even though in no world was I ever going to run them. I will go on planning, and then sleeping through, these marathons. Maybe next time, I’ll shoot for ten miles.
