On this planet there are dark skinned people, light skinned people and every shade in between. Short people, tall people, skinny people and fat people exist in every society.  These things make us unique; they make us who we are.  For all of our differences, however, we are somewhat the same. We all eat, sleep and drink. On the whole we all have two eyes, two ears, ten fingers, and ten toes. Men and women worldwide love children, family, and friends. Facing the challenges, heartbreaks and tragedies of everyday life define our humanity.  Cultural differences, sexual differences, and racial differences represent but a few of the problems that we must contend with on a daily basis. These important issues capture our headlines and rightfully warrant our attention.

However, I believe that they pale in comparison to the true division of our species. I propose that the entire population of planet Earth can be divided into two groups.  I believe that this division, in all probability, is the cause of every World War, famine in the Middle East, and the U.P.S. strike (not to mention EL NIÑO and the depletion of the ozone layer). Quite possibly it can be identified as the root of every world crisis. I say that the time has come to solve the world’s problems. We simply need to separate, at all costs, these two groups of people.

In this world there are those who wake up at the crack of dawn and those who would sleep until noon if given half an opportunity. They are commonly referred to as ”morning people” and “night people”.

“Morning people.” Everyone knows this type of person. They have a demeanor about them that only another morning person could love. Morning people start each day smiling and happy. Their catch-phrases include: “Rise and shine!” and “The early bird gets the worm!” These people set the alarm clock but know that it’s not necessary. They bolt out of bed at 6:00am sharp (or earlier — gasp!), ready to face the glorious, beautiful, sunny day. They whistle while they make the bed.

They skip to the shower and wash themselves, singing “Oh, what a beautiful morning…” in perfect key. They never get soap in their eyes and their towels always smell like a fresh, spring day. Advertising executives get paid big money to dream up scenes of this nature. Why the morning person takes a shower in the first place remains a mystery. After all, everyone knows that they wake up with perfect hair and minty- fresh breath.

The coffee maker brews the latest designer flavor (decaffeinated, of course) as the morning person peruses the newspaper and chuckles at the “Family Circus” comic strip.  They leave for work humming “Hi-ho, hi- ho, it’s off to work we go” and listen to  self- improvement tapes while in the car.

At work, the morning person arrives at least 20 minutes early. This extra time is necessary to straighten their desks (perpetually spotless) and to greet, in the most annoying manner possible, every single person they see. “Good morning!” they say, with an emphasis on the first word. Huge, gaping smiles, full of mesmerizing, white teeth adorn their cheerful faces. These smiles are genuine and why not? Another glorious day has just been graced by their presence.

These people thrive on an active schedule. They talk fast, think fast, and must constantly be moving. They arrange, down to the very second, the entire day and stick to that plan vehemently. Stress arises when they must deviate from their ironclad, grand scheme. The source of this anxiety can invariably be traced to the other type of person.

“Night people”. This term is actually a misnomer. Night people should be labeled as “late- morning” people. They slither out of bed at the latest possible moment. The siren song of the night person is the snooze bar on the alarm clock. It lures the bleary eyed awake only to dash them to bits on the jagged rocks of another late-rising day. Typically, night people set their clocks ahead by half an hour and are late anyway. The bed is never made.

The ensuing chaos would seem comical to the morning person. Sprinting from the bedroom to the bathroom, the night person jumps in the shower, drops the soap at least half a dozen times, lathers up with a combination shampoo and conditioner, and air-dries while they’re looking for something to wear. There is no singing.

Their clothes are usually wrinkled. If they are young and single it’s entirely possible that they will be wearing the same outfit they had on the day before. Sheet marks are visible on their haggard looking faces, gouging deep troughs in the skin next to their puffy, bloodshot eyes.

The car is not just a means of transportation to people afflicted with this condition. It serves as a makeshift bathroom, providing much needed time. Various things can be accomplished while driving, prompting other drivers to gaze with wide-eyed wonder at the spectacle in the next car (morning people, no doubt). Women put on make-up and men shave with their electric razors. Self- improvement tapes are out of the question.

Night people arrive at work exactly on time or even a little late. Piles of paper litter their desks and a bottomless cup of coffee (never decaffeinated) serves as the centerpiece. They avoid saying “good morning”, opting instead for the more appropriate ”mornin’”. More often, however, an elementary, primal grunt of acknowledgement greets passersby. Smiles rarely grace the face of night people and this can be attributed to one of two things: 1) there is no reason to smile, or 2) they didn’t have time to brush their teeth.

On a positive note, the average night owl handles stress skillfully. I firmly believe that if faced with a burning house, a mouthy teenager that just wrecked the car, and a dog with bladder control problems, the night person would shrug it off, knowing that tomorrow will be another day. (Another day– yes– but not necessarily a better one).  Impatient, cheery, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed morning people stress the night person, but not to the point of anger. Anger wastes energy and is simply not worth the effort.

The zest for life that symbolizes the lifeblood of the morning person holds no meaning for the night person. They just don’t get it.

Obviously, separating these two types of people completely represents monumental, even impossible task. Everyday life demands that they interact. The only choice is to learn to get along, each accepting the other for what they are. It will be a long and toilsome journey for most. The road to compatibility will be bumpy and full of hairpin turns. Perhaps we can find a happy medium and solve all of our problems.

I hold no hope for the future, however. After all, the morning people will be halfway down the road before the night people are even out of bed.

It loomed in the corner of my small apartment. The big brown monster seemed to lurk mischievously there, waiting for its next victim. It practically invited the unwitting and uninitiated to join it in its dark, gloomy solitude. The spine-breaking ride of a lifetime awaited the sorry person who answered the invitation.

The Captain’s Chair began its life as an ordinary recliner. It belonged to my Dad, who put it to good, normal use for many years. I can vividly remember him relaxing in it, smoking a Camel and reading the evening paper. The chair occupied a spot in the living room of my parent’s house for many years. It served as a sort of room divider, separating the kitchen from the rest of the house. When I started high school the chair began its long, useful life in our house. When I graduated high school the chair had been moved only to vacuum under it. When I returned from military service five years later the chair still occupied the same spot. The Captain had grown accustomed to its surroundings.

It was after I returned from the Navy, however, that ownership of the chair transferred and the personality of the chair took on a sinister, roguish quality. In its youth this chair nicely accommodated every backside with its plush, comfortable cushions. When one would sit down, the Captain’s Chair emitted an almost inaudible “whoosh” that usually coincided with a very audible sigh of relief. It was the whisper of a good friend saying, “Have a seat. Kick off your shoes and stay a while.” All kinds of rears felt comfortable there; skinny rumps, fat rumps and average sized rumps. This chair embodied perfection. When I took possession of the chair it was still in working order. Although showing the signs of middle age, the Captain seemed to be aging gracefully. There was no sign of a mid- life crisis. When I removed it from its familiar surroundings, however, “El Capitan” shed its graceful demeanor and began the long transformation into the fiend that it became.

My life as a bachelor would have seemed unruly, even barbaric, to most. Nightly meals consisted of Kraft macaroni and cheese and a Tyson chicken patty. Parties petered out at ridiculous hours of the morning. A state of debauchery and a general lack of self-control reigned supreme. These excessively degenerate qualities, coupled with intemperance and a blatant disregard for personal hygiene, doomed my apartment and the Captain’s Chair to a state of perpetual disrepair. Graceful middle age quickly took a kamikaze- like nosedive into old age and senility. In the span of a year I managed to destroy that chair.

What once was a nice, comfortable place to relax, became a crooked, grouchy eyesore. I spent innumerable hours in the Captain’s Chair doing innumerable things. Obviously not in the market for self- improvement, I spent countless hours lounging and watching the latest drivel on television. Video games were a necessity, and what better place than one’s favorite chair to numb the mind. Killing brain cells was also a favorite pastime in those days. If I could have wrung out the cushions like a dirty dishtowel, a case of Miller might have gushed out. Cigarette burns blemished the arms like festering, open sores and the once velvet-like fabric assumed a matted down look that resembled the fur of a wet cat. Under the cushion one could find a plethora of forgotten items; a comb, three month old dry roasted peanuts, last February’s issue of Discover magazine, and $2.43 in loose change. I never had the courage to get down on my hands and knees and actually look under the Captain. I suppose I might have found the rest of the peanuts and the remote control.

Reclining in the Captain’s Chair resulted in an act of contortionism that Houdini would have envied. The back of the chair would recline past horizontal, bending the spine of the uninitiated into an almost impossible position. At times one could hear distinct cracking noises and a deep, guttural “sprooiinngg” when adjusting the lever. The seat likewise relinquished its comfortable flatness. An incredible smell filled the flaring nostrils of every unsuspecting victim. A combination of beer, smoke, sweat and old food resulted in a greasy, pungent odor that was not, at least to me, entirely unpleasant. While others smelled the filth of a dozen dirty socks, I smelled memories. In that chair I had spent quality, bachelor time. Once, I spilled a plate mounded with macaroni and cheese in the seat. Laziness was my motto and cleaning was against my religion. I scraped the macaroni off of the seat and considered it good enough. I smoked so many cigarettes that a constant slate-gray haze hung in my apartment, resembling a Pink Floyd concert at Market Square Arena. Many nights I came home from work and fell asleep with a beer cradled between my legs. In the morning I would wake up to a wet seat and a wet crotch. These were memories only a bachelor could cherish.

When I married my wife, the marriage to the chair dissolved. She did not see any of the Captain’s beauty. She did not share my fondness for the Captain’s Chair and the chair somehow knew. When we moved into our new house, my poor chair was banished to the basement. It was akin to an old-folk’s home for chairs. “El Capitan” had been retired. The day I took the Captain’s Chair to the curb was a sad, melancholy one. As I recall it was overcast and rain was beginning to spot the driveway. Large item trash pick-up felt like a funeral procession to me and I kept waiting to hear the dirge. In the end the Captain did not go with dignity. Sprawled out like a cheap centerfold and covered with cat hair, my chair had died a gruesome death. It was time. I said goodbye to my old friend and as I walked away from the curb I thought I heard the Captain sigh and felt a distinct pull. It was almost like my chair was saying, “C’mon, one more time. Have a seat. Kick off your shoes and stay a while.”

I now have a $1500 hunter-green, leather chair with a seat so soft I feel like I might sink in to the point of disappearing. It is a good chair and with the matching ottoman, looks presentable in our living room. I am slowly but methodically molding it to my specifications. The seat is beginning to lean and the back is starting to rip. I even managed to burn a hole in the arm (and I hear about it incessantly, let me tell you). In the life cycle of chairs, however, this chair is still in diapers. I look forward to making more memories in this chair but it will never be able to replace the Captain’s Chair.

I really loved that chair.