Another Attitude Challenge

"People sleeping in a train" by Correogsk.
Licensed under CC BY-SAe 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons.

Sleep.

Or the lack thereof.

The fact that I am writing this before 7 am should give you a clue to my feelings about sleep. That noncommittal bastard.

Used to, I could sleep through anything and everything, for hours on end. A car accident happened outside my door? Didn't hear it. A thunderstorm crashed down around me? No problem. Fireworks? Pffft. Try harder. The glow of streetlights nearby? Ha. Hahaha. You amuse me. The dull rumble of a nearby train? You have me intrigued . . . but no.

Nowadays--at least over the last couple of years--it's more the case that practically everything wakes me up in the middle of the night. A creaky floor. The wind. A car engine. A bird. Light pollution. The temperature being above 72 F degrees in my bedroom. A ceiling fan. A partner turning over. The dull rumble of a train anywhere in a 20-mile radius of my consciousness.

Grass growing. A butterfly exhaling. A slightly perturbed dust mite. A gopher with a headache. The formation of a stalactite or a stalagmite in Mammoth Cave. A half-remembered black-and-gold ensemble from Steelers game day. The fact that Nadine's on the Southside makes me think I'm living out some sort of Deer Hunter Mystery Weekend Package nightmare (with Meryl Streep's role now played by Honey Boo Boo's mother). Kim Kardashian's floral dress choice during her pregnancy. Dick Cheney's pacemaker. The Israeli-Palestinian conflict as told through a Punch and Judy show. An unsatisfactorily resolved plotline on Coronation Street. (A year later, I still think the way the Karl and Stella story ended was lame. As was this summer's Nick and Leanne breakup saga.)

And kale. Above all else, kale.

I may be exhausted at 10 or 11, I may fight going to bed until 11:30, I may fall asleep with a thud, but chances are I'll be wide awake by 3 am. Or 2:30. Or 4. Or 1:45. Or 4:30. Or in this morning's case, 5:12.

Then I drag through the day, spend most of the afternoon yawning, leave the office, come home, am wide awake, and then do it all over again.

Nothing much seems to help. Melatonin. Less caffeine (for realz, even though I do consider it a basic food group). No local news (and thus limited contact with home invasions, car chases, and the Steelers latest ingrown hair crisis). Reading. Putting down my phone (which I'm still struggling with, admittedly). Alone time (ahem). Keeping the room temperature at 68 F or lower. WD40 for the ceiling fan. Earplugs. An eyemask. The fear that I will be found in bed wearing earplugs and an eyemask with a can of WD40 nearby. A bath before bedtime. Subscriptions to the non-Pittsburgh editions of Bon Appetit and Architectural Digest. Perusing the Amateur's Guide to Demonic Possession and Exorcism: Vice Presidential Edition. Some quickly dashed off clothing designs sent to Kim and Kanye (the MuMu and flats can be your temporary friends, Kimmy). Reading the Coronation Street spoilers. A fiery letter of complaint and an express-delivered Molotov cocktail to the Kale Marketing Association of America.

I suspect this is just one of those "you're getting older" things and, trust me, even for the chance of better sleep, I really don't want to relive, Groundhog Day style, the last 52 years--with the possible exceptions of having danced more in the clubs in my heyday, learned to grow hair in a petri dish, actually taken that radio production course, moved out of the country for a few years when the opportunities presented themselves, and laid off the Nutella a bit, saving myself for my one true love, Speculoos, instead.

But, golly, I feel like if I've made it this far in life, I should be rewarded with more sleep, not less.
Get your act together, universe. But don't wake me when you do.