JONATHAN GOLDSTEIN

Is being awake in the middle of the night inherently impressive?

“Any tweet before 7 a.m. is an automatic humble brag anyway. It’s like you’re broadcasting the fact that you’re up and getting things done while they, like slackers,

sleep.’

JONATHAN GOLDSTEIN

My Week

MONDAY

3:40 a.m. Refreshed after a four-and-a-half-hour nap, I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. I’ve just returned from Australia and have jet lag. I try to get back to sleep, but can’t help myself from thinking “thoughts”: Would a publisher buy a book about the science of The Jetsons? Can self-pity be a superpower? In the history of the world, has a violent fight to the death ever been fought over whether one says to- may- to or to- mah- to?

4:05 a.m. I feel the eyes upon me, staring through the darkness. These are the eyes whose gaze I’ve felt since childhood. They fill me with all the self-consciousness of being watched over by God, but with none of the spiritual comfort.

On some days, I feel the eyes less; but then other days — days spent in the throws of jet lag — they are so close I can feel the eyelashes upon my skin, feel eyeballs under the blankets like I’m in a sleeping bag full of marbles.

Twitter simulates this feeling. With every tweet, you are building a God to watch over you.

4:15 a.m. I get out of bed and take to Twitter to complain about my Australian jet lag. This is what’s known as a humble brag — that special brand of sharing that pretends to selfdeprecate but really self-aggrandizes. In 140 characters it’s more difficult to cultivate subtlety and subterfuge and so the veneer can be seen through more easily. For example: “OMG! I just spilled wine all over the back seat of Jimmy Fallon’s limo. I’m such a klutz!” And thus envy is stirred in the hearts of your enemies. I mean friends. Followers. Instead, I tweet, “Just waiting on the bird song, y’all.” Any tweet before 7 a.m. is an automatic humble brag anyway. It’s like you’re broadcasting the fact that you’re up and getting things done while they, like slackers, sleep.

4:50 a.m. Speaking of getting things done, it’s not even 5 a.m. and I’ve swept my balcony, paid some bills and, for the first time in ages, made steel-cut oatmeal from a years-old tin in the back of my pantry. I think this early-rising thing might actually be making me a better man.

5:45 a.m. The only person I know who’s up this early is my agent, Gregor. I phone him up.

“I think I’ve figured out how to lead a happier, more productive life,” I say. “I woke up before 4 this morning and I feel great. I’ve accomplished so much.” “Like what?” he asks. “I paid my phone bill. Tweeted,” I say uncertainly. “Ate porridge.” “You’re a burrito filled with bad self-advice beans,” he says. “I was just opening the box of business cards you picked out. Comic sans?” “I thought it might be playful.” “Hepatitis is playful,” he says. “These cards are an atrocity. Come over. We can burn them together.” “Before we start, maybe we can grab lunch?” I put the phone down and get ready to leave. But then, realizing how tired I’m starting to feel, decide on a quick nap. Just for an hour or two. Maybe three. And then I’ll be on my way.