From what I can tell, no one else is suffering from this same paralyzing awkwardness. The room isn't packed -- there's a solid eight inches between each dancer -- and while that maximizes the visibility factor, paves the way for my party-pooping eye of judgment, people just don't seem to notice. The crowd is an eclectic mix, but almost everyone is smiling, boogying to the un-tssss, un-tssss of the DJ's cyclic rhythm.

I realize the one thing I did get right was the uniform: My galaxy-patterned leggings are spot on. It occurs to me that I've never seen so many leggings in my life as in this very room. The variety of prints is extraordinary: Holographic hexagons, Technicolor florals, jailbird stripes, anime, tropical landscapes... there's even a pair patterned with what I'm guessing is every available image of Ryan Gosling's face.

The spectacle doesn't stop there.

There is a guy in a lizard suit, a girl in a pizza suit, tutus, bunny ears, mouse ears, cat ears, faux animal ears of all species.

There's a pregnant couple rubbing the mom-to-be's belly to the beat. There's a woman with blue hair taking toothy, Tumblr-bound selfies.

A trio of burly men with brass instruments conga-lines in, playing along to the music, and the crowd goes wild. A breakdance circle forms -- they love that too.

And everyone, but me, is dancing.

Soon I realize that this DAYBREAKER thing is not a fitness gimmick or a place for ex-junkies to get a taste of the old life. This is simply a big party for good-natured early risers looking for a sense of community to get together, be themselves and dance. Maybe some people are here to get their heart rates up. Maybe some are here for the novelty. But as far as I can tell, most have come to boost their mood and bust a move, judgment-free.

Me? I'm a late-sleeping loner with a penchant for bluegrass and sarcasm, but I figure, I'm already here right? So in I go, to the belly of the beast.

Being a good dancer is obviously not the point here. But without the usual liquid lubrication, I don't even know where to begin. So, once I've shimmied myself into the pack, I pick a petite brunette in harem pants and try to copy all her moves. Un-tssss, un-tssss... just be yourself.

Still, no matter what I do, I wind up ankle-deep in the two-step. I can't find my way through the synthy tangle of the EDM playlist. Maybe no one else in the room is judging me, but I'm judging myself. Hey, good clean fun at 6am can't be for everyone.

Ninety minutes into the party, I inhale another granola bar and summon an Uber home. By 9 a.m., I'm back asleep. It was all, effectively, a dream.

So, the essential question: What did I learn? What did little, grumpy, legging-clad Dorothy glean from her morning in Oz?

The answer is this: There is real beauty in a 6 a.m. rave. There's beauty in the idea that innocent, rug-cutting, mood-boosting fun doesn't have to end at childhood. And off-the-wall group activities don't have to end at college.

But a 6 a.m. rave isn't like a Zumba class or even a rave that starts five hours earlier -- there's no person or substance to draw the energy out of you. It has to come from within.

So, will I personally be attending another DAYBREAKER event? I will not. My circadian rhythms won't allow it. But I'm glad DAYBREAKER exists.

So when I stir awake some morning around 6 a.m. or 7, and roll over to see the sun slicing through my blackout curtains, I will smile, taking comfort in knowing that somewhere on this Earth, there's a girl in Ryan Gosling leggings, breaking a sweat with a guy in a lizard suit, for no other reason than to set her spirit free.