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"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.
