Yesterday morning, I watched as a hipster gracefully rode a bicycle into a revolving door, then got stuck halfway around. That alone was sufficient compensation for getting out of bed that morning. The rest of the day was pure profit.

Some days are like that, the payoff comes early.

Some days, it takes until just before bed, maybe your kid shows you what she did in psychology class, classical temperament types. You’re melancholic, she says. Mom’s choleric. I’m phlegmatic.

There are days, of course, when getting out of bed is a mistake. But you never know.

Lately, though, they’ve been good. A tortoise sniffing the draft coming in under the door even before you make coffee in the morning (it’s cold nights lately, the tortoise has to stay in the house until he goes into hibernation).

A cat trying to talk you out of bacon.

Meeting a nice person.

Seeing your kid happy, or your wife.