Forget how much sex you have. Or what salary you earn. In our humble (hard-partying, night-owl) opinions, the last true taboo is how different women spend their first waking hours.
Our curiosity surged last week when we found out that the majority of working moms in the U.K. do an average of three hours of housework before they arrive at work
, and six in 10 don't turn in until 11 p.m. But is that late or early? And what happens if you're not a mom?
That's when we decided to ask five real women with little in common except for the fact that they all have ovaries these questions: What time do you go to bed? What time do you get up? And is the bed you wake up in actually yours?
They didn't disappoint. One gets up at 5 and runs 10 miles before she clocks in. (Then goes to the gym again.) Two rarely call it a night before 2 a.m. And together they offer fascinating insight into different ways you can start -- and end -- your day.
Click through the links below to read the minute-by-minute rundown on how a hardcore runner, a cohabiting teacher, a stay-at-home mom, a newlywed with no kids, and a single girl in the big city greet the day. Then please, tell us how you do in the comments.
A morning in the life of:
26, single, works full time as a Web editor, runner
How her day starts:
Alarm goes off.
Get out of bed. Consider that waking up this early is probably why I'm single. Wonder how early on in the dating game I can ask if someone is a heavy sleeper. Do personal ads ever say, "You: Heavy sleeper, won't wake up until after my morning workout; wouldn't mind if I'm already showered and making breakfast when you finally roll out of bed?"
Grab and throw on running gear. Brush teeth. Pull hair into ponytail. Realize it's raining. Change shoes. Try not to slam door when leaving apartment so as not to wake roommate.
Stumble down the stairs. I've lived in the building for more than a year, and the same signs reminding residents that "people live here, not pigs" are posted in the stairwell. I still don't know what those are about.
Start running. I'm training for the Boston Marathon and usually run between 8 and 10 miles each morning. The usual suspects are out: the man with the bagel cart who says, "Good morning, my lovely," a handful of warehouse workers, and a few bodega owners who wave. Now that it's spring, I see more runners at the end of my workouts, but they don't come out when it rains.
Finish running. Realize that I should have taken more time off between marathons and that my body hates me. Find my economy-size bottle of ibuprofen. Pop three bright orange pills, chew two multi-vitamins and plan to hit a Pilates class after work and use a foam roller to get rid of some muscle tightness
Drink a glass of water and some milk, straight from the container. It's gross, but there's only a little left. Check personal email, scan news headlines, update blog.
Shower. Am acutely aware that for someone who is in shorts every day, I should probably shave my legs more. Don't care.
Get dressed. It's Friday and raining. Decide it's not worth the effort to look cute. Put on makeup. Throw on jeans, shirt, ballet flats and necklace. Biggest decision was choosing a bra that wouldn't show through a lavender-colored top. Blow-dry hair, throw it up with a clip. Grab a few elastics for when it annoys me later.
Throw two slices of bread in the toaster. Survey contents of fridge. Cut up celery and put into a baggie. Add dried fruit. Grab two cheese sticks, two yogurts and one plum. Fairly sure I won't eat all of it, but it's better than hitting the vending machine later. Eat a yogurt with flaxseed, wait for toast to get done. Smear toast with reduced-fat peanut butter and head back to my room to pack my gym bag and clear the clutter from my room. Since spring cleaning, have been trying to keep everything tidy. It's actually worked.
Leave apartment, drop off recycling. Try to avoid thinking about the rat I saw last time I was in our "backyard." Walk to subway station. Arrive at platform as train is pulling away. Typical. Swipe pass. "Insufficient Fare." Great. Monthly pass is expired and my new one is at home. Pull extra from wallet (leftover from the unemployment days when I paid per ride) and swipe through. Wait for next train.
Hop on train, find seat, continue reading "The Blind Side." Don't normally like Michael Lewis, but borrowed it from the roommate's boyfriend.
Arrive at the Grand Street station. It's a 10-minute walk to the elementary school where I coach track, and I have to drop off permission slips to make copies. Despite the fact that practice is in the afternoon, I end up at the school in the morning at least once every two weeks. Usually, someone asks if I'm a mom. Today, they don't. Instead, I bump into one of my kids who looks at me like I'm a creature from outer space. Later it hits me: She has never seen me when I'm not in workout clothes.
Leave elementary school and decide it's nice enough to walk the rest of the way to work. Call one of my sportswriter friends who covered a game the night before and doesn't have to be at work for a while. How is it that I'm only free at weird times?
Get to work.
Hit the sack.