At dinner the other night, I was telling my friends Derrick and Lee Ann about the new dawn simulator I had just purchased.

Lee Ann did a double take. “What did you say?” she asked.

“I bought a dawn simulator.”

“Oooohhhhhh,” she said, looking a little relieved. “I thought you said ‘dong simulator.’”

“I already have one of those.”

Ba-da-bum.

So, yes, I’ve bought a dawn simulator. If you don’t know what this is, think alarm clock with a bunch of LED lights stacked on top of it. I set the alarm for whatever time I want to wake up and then pick a sunrise length of either 15 or 30 minutes. So, for instance, if I want to wake up at 6 a.m. and have picked a 15-minute sunrise, the lights start turning on at 5:45 and are full bright by six.

I bought this for a few reasons. First of all, after years of suspecting that I had seasonal affective disorder (SAD), I finally took the plunge and got an expert medical opinion—by way of a self-diagnosing tool on the Internet. There I learned that SAD is kick started by the shorter days of winter and characterized by depression, difficulty waking, fatigue, and carbohydrate craving.

Okay, to be honest, aside from the depression, I pretty much have these symptoms year-round. I love to sleep. No, really. I.love.it. I’m one of those people who can sleep ten hours at night and still take a two-hour nap. And I have never, ever in my life been a morning person. It almost always takes an act of Congress, a marching band, and a 21-gun salute to wake me in the morning, and even then I trudge through the first two hours of my day as if it’s the Bataan death march.

As for craving carbs…suffice it to say that I could live happily on a diet of pasta, pizza, doughnuts, cookie batter, mashed potatoes, and Wonder bread. As a kid, when I heard that prisoners got only bread and water to eat (and I actually believed that for way longer than I care to admit), I was mostly just really jealous.

All of this is compounded during the winter months, especially on the east coast, where light disappears behind a featureless gray sky for days at a time. Beginning in October, I want to take my loaf of Wonder bread and crawl under the covers until spring or the Apocalypse, whichever comes first.

As I read about SAD, I also read about the treatment: light therapy (my knowledge of which stemmed exclusively from an episode of Northern Exposure I saw about a dozen years ago). Supposedly, sitting in front of really bright lights for 30 to 60 minutes each morning fools your brain into thinking the days are longer and the hibernation period has ended.

Here’s a confession: I have a very western approach to medicine. I like pills. And chemicals. And stamps that say “FDA approved.” And studies with charts and numbers and pie graphs showing me that what I’m taking has actually been proven to work.

I’m highly skeptical of any medical treatment that doesn’t have these things. This is the reason I don’t take vitamins or do acupuncture or drink herbal tea. The most unconventional medicinal thing I do is go to a chiropractor, who, I must admit, has worked miracles on my back.

Most of my friends are into alternative medicine and I believe them when they tell me about the amazing results they’ve had. But I just can’t bring myself to try them. Not that I never will…I just haven’t yet.

So when I read about light therapy it sounded like something a witch doctor deep in the sub-Saharan bush would prescribe. I mean, really? You want me to sit in front of a lamp for a half hour a day and all my problems will be solved? My suspicions were heightened when I looked into ordering one of these lights and saw that the prices ranged from $60 to $300. I thought of all the poor saps who forked over their money for one, basking in its artificial glow, waiting for some miracle. These are the same people who buy ShamWows.

But the fact was, the days were getting shorter and I was having a harder time getting up in the morning (often dragging myself out of bed at 8:30—just a half hour before the kids had to leave for school) and feeling more and more lethargic and depressed. So I asked my doctor about light therapy, expecting her to roll her eyes and say, “Sure. And after you buy one I have some real estate investment opportunities in Florida I’d like to talk to you about.” But to my surprise, she didn’t. She told me that, yes, light therapy had been proven to be effective for most people who suffered from SAD, and the results were almost immediate.

I bought a dawn simulator that same afternoon.

I’ve been using it for two weeks now and I have to say: I’m a believer. Since waking up with the dawn simulator, I’ve been getting out of bed no later than 6:30 each morning and writing for two hours before the kids wake up. I feel more creative and more productive and more in control of my day. In a word, I feel more awake.

I’m willing to admit that some of this could be the placebo effect. I’m very prone to suggestion. Several years ago I was at the dentist to have a cavity filled. I asked for nitrous oxide because I hate getting my teeth drilled so I figured why not use it as an excuse to party. The dentist placed the mask over my nose and said, “You’ll start to feel the effects of this pretty quickly.”

I nodded my head. “Yeah,” I said a little dreamily. “I already am.”

He paused and looked at me. “I haven’t turned it on yet.”

Yes, ladies and gentleman, this is the embarrassment I call my life. I’m probably one of those people who wouldn’t need anesthesia for open heart surgery. Just put a mask over my face and pump in oxygen and give me an injection of saline, and I’ll be good to go.

So it’s possible that this dawn simulator is nothing more than an over-priced nightlight. But I don’t think so. Not when we’re talking about something so dear to me…sleep. I might be able to talk myself into not feeling the pain of an invasive medical procedure, but I really don’t think I can talk myself into being a morning person.

And so what if I am just fooling myself? Does that really matter? The reality is I’m feeling less depressed and more in control of my life. If it took a $150 alarm clock to make that happen, so be it. I want to shout from the rooftops: “I, Laura Ann Mullane, am a convert!” Just you watch. Pretty soon I’ll be drinking herbal tea, going in for acupuncture, and ordering a ShamWow. But not just yet. First I’m going to order my dong simulator.