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Monday, February 1, 2016


Hypnos—absent again. I think I'll dock his pay or ground him or something.
Sleepless nights just lay me out flat. I don’t mean nights with interrupted cot time—ya know where I wake up a half dozen times to:
  • pee
  • berate myself for that second (oh, who am I kidding 3rd) glass of vino
  • blow my nose
  • pop a throat lozenge
  • pat the cat who’d come to see if I wouldn't like to get up. Yeah, it's early but...
  • dramatically and definitively throw all the covers off my hot flashing self
  • or pull all the covers (including the handkerchief’s worth that The Amazing Bob still has hold of) over top of me as I suffer through a cold flash (yes, they do SO exist!)
Nope, I’m talking about full blown no-sleep-at-all nights.

Remember when we were kids and staying up late was so cool? How ’bout in high school, college and early 20s? We'd be out dancing and talking until dawn and then meet the sunrise with a heart full of tired, ain’t-it-good-to-be-alive sappiness. This, THIS right here, was the height of awesome. Afterwards we’d grab brekkie at some greasy spoon, smugly eyeballing the bleary eyed working stiffs. Them with their bolstering infusions of coffee and eggs before yet another slog through the 9-5 (we'd, of course, never have thankless, dull, annoying jobs like these poor bastids!). Next we'd head home to fall easily, happily into a daylong snooze fests.

Nope, I’m not talking about that.

I was beyond tired on Friday evening and crawled into bed early to read and keep Rocco company. I figured I’d drift off to ZZZ-land mid-paragraph. That’d be it for me until our furry ex feral decided it was time for me to fetch his morning meal. Right?

Wrong. Two hours later, I was stunned to find myself still awake. An hour later, Rocco had retired to his closet bunk and TAB was peacefully sacked out at my side. I realized that I wasn't just 'up'—I was really up. I was did-I-pop-a-few-beauties-or-what? up. I knew that all the relaxation and breathing exercises and drafts of Sleepytime would be sadly, frustratingly futile. What to do? I donned my robe and came downstairs to clean the kitchen, pay bills, pick up around the living room, doodle and, of course, surf the web.

I’m always stunned at how much I get done on these insomniac nights.

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