No Sleep for the Weary

I am going to deny vehemently that I am getting older. T here is truth and evidence that the cause is the shift in my level of melatonin – and I don’t mean I have more (I think I lost it after my teenage years).  The blame ought to rest squarely on whomever was in charge of doling out hours in the day and that they should have added a few extra to the twenty-four that they mysteriously came up with so that busy folk would have a bit more time to accomplish what they must yet have time to slow the pace, not feel rushed, get some sleep and give the brain time to catch up with itself.

Our lives are busy.  Our families are demanding.  We try to justify our being.  I am in search of a legitimate excuse for my lack of restful slumber.  You know what I am talking about.  Getting up in the middle of the night to use the restroom or grab a drink then hop back in bed and fall quickly back into deep repose does not count.  I am talking the “eyes pop open at 2:11AM to find the bedroom in a mysterious darkness and as much as I try, the eyes do not want to close”.  You shift; you roll; you stretch; you listen to the snuffle and snortling (a sound from your bed-mate that you used to think was endearing but is now somehow not).  Nothing is helping achieve your goal of counting ‘z’s’.  The brain is spinning, scenarios of the day and prospects of tomorrow’s happenings do not allow your brain to turn off and do what it is supposed to do at this time of day.

Counting sheep doesn’t help, even if you do it backwards.  Feeling like you are melting into your state of the art, designed by NASA, mattress, doesn’t bring you close to the hibernation mode you yearn for.  An hour ticks by.  You are now panicking about the fact you can’t sleep and you try to trick yourself into “if I close my eyes, I will sleep”.  Then your eyes pop back open and you realize how ridiculous that sounded.  You analyze each and every nuance of all that is part of your existence.  Two hours are now gone.

You get up, you pace, you ponder, you flip through a People magazine, and nothing seems to satisfy your whizzing brain.  A load of laundry gets thrown in the machine, the plants get watered, and the theory of relativity weighs heavy on your mind. It is now 4:46AM and you wonder if it is worth trying to go back to bed and get 45 minutes of sleep or forget about it and dive into that apple pie that is sitting there calling your name.  You opt for the bed route and climb into bed.

“Wha? Wha? Who’s there?”  Apparently your promiser of love and protector for eternity did not even realize you haven’t been in bed for the last two and a half hours. H e speaks to you incoherently and drops back into his pillow fast asleep – what a show-off that he just zonks out with no effort whatsoever.  I am half tempted to wake him just for fun but the desire of forty winks is luring me.

I couldn’t get twenty winks (I did get one wink, from a construction worker, about a year ago, but I digress).  The alarm went off and my feet hit the floor and my “bona fide” day had to begin.  Guess I should have opted for the apple pie and worry about getting some sleep tomorrow or at least figure out how I can rearrange my furniture in the living room and put that up time to good use.

Cynthia A. McClelland, curious observer of the obvious with interpretations of the oddities of daily life. Mother, wife and lover of the furry, resides in the north Lake Tahoe area.

Cynthia A. McClelland © 2003-