My wife and I only go to church on the big days -- Christmas and Easter.

My wife comes from a relatively strict Mormon family, whereas I come from a relatively laid-back Methodist family, so we split the difference and went to a Presbyterian service.

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We chose the service because it was outside, in a park and had given some thought to attending a service that was being held in a sports stadium. The last time we were at that stadium, we saw a monster truck show. And while the idea of blending the two events was amusing (a monster truck launches into the air, and, amid a lightning storm of flash bulbs, lands on the moneychanger's table), we opted for something a little more reverent.

It was a sunrise service, which meant waking up at 5 a.m.

Sitting there in the morning mist, listening to a choir and birds and the morning silence, I was pretty dang happy. I thought to myself, "This is so beautiful and peaceful, I should get up at 5 a.m. every day."

That feeling lasted for about two hours. Then I was exhausted. My wife and I returned home and went back to bed.

The fact is I hate waking up early.

A few years ago I was an associate producer for a morning show in Reno, Nev. I woke up at 2 a.m. every day, and I was miserable. No matter how hard I tried, I could never get enough sleep. I just walked around sleepy and grumpy, threatening to kill co-workers.

I have realized that my continued happiness is in part related to when and how much I work. The later and less I work, the happier I am. I am a joyously lazy bloke, and have often thought about just quitting my job and doing nothing.

I understand that homelessness is not fun. But I reckon that among the millions of unlucky, tragic souls, there must be at least one guy who really digs being homeless. I sometimes think that I could be that guy. I dream of spending my life hiking the Pacific Crest Trail or stomping about in Northern Minnesota and living like Henry David Thoreau (yes, I know, he didn't live in Minnesota -- but he should have).

I would probably end up more like Skink, in a Carl Hiaasen novel, screaming obscenities at airplanes and dining on roadkill. And I am pulled back to civilization by the reality that my wife would not want to spend time in the sack with that guy.

In those Northern Nevada mornings, and before I was married, I worked with a director, Gabe, whom we would tease mercilessly about being married.

"Actually, I like my wife," Gabe would often say. "I like hanging out with her."

I find myself in the same predicament. As a boy, I wished for a lot of things -- wealth, fame, superpowers, a harem. Now I find myself wishing for more time to spend with my wife.

Granted, marital bliss isn't always bliss, like when she spurns my amorous advances, telling me, "I felt like it earlier, but you were watching your show."

My wife is not protecting my interests by allowing me to watch "The Crocodile Hunter" uninterrupted. We need to develop hand signals, like in baseball, so she can communicate important information even when friends are around:

"Hey, man, is your wife signaling you to bunt?"

"Uhhh, sorta. Why don't you finish watching the game at home?"

But on the whole, I like my wife. I like hanging out with her. So I won't disappear into the woods just yet. Which means I am forced to go to work each day, and cut my hair on a regular basis, and only eat things that we buy at the store.

Going to work means that I am left with the problem of not having enough time to be the lackadaisical little monkey that I want to be. I suppose this is what they mean when they say marriage is all about compromise.

Perhaps if I woke up earlier, I'd have more time to do less stuff.

Chris Cope is married, with no children. His column appears every other Tuesday.