[Note: The following post represents the actual thinking of me during an episode of insomnia, slightly edited. Insomnia affects millions of Americans, and you should contribute to Insomnia Awareness by worrying about it at 3 a.m. tomorrow morning. No, just kidding about that, and you should probably not finish that 20 oz. cup of coffee if it is past noon.]
Maybe it was the Rum and Coke. Jane, who appears to be sleeping peacefully, has a theory that the Rum cancels out the Coke, so there is no net effect on one’s ability to sleep. That seems to be working for her, but…
I am bigger than her (and that is good, and I REALLY don’t want that to change), but that means my liver is bigger than hers, and that means the Rum is gone (“Why is the Rum gone?”) from my system faster, leaving only the caffeine in the Coke to keep me awake. Maybe I need twice as much rum to make the formula work. Of course that has other problems, like turning me into a complete scoundrel. Why oh why do I need to have a scientific explanation for this? Maybe that’s my real problem.
I finally get relaxed. Well, almost relaxed. It’s 1 a.m., and I just noticed that the bed is creaking. I bet I could fix this in the afternoon, and I am sure I won’t remember it then, or it won’t seem important. I never noticed it before, but it seems like my breathing, Jane’s breathing, and Atticus (the cat) in a certain place sets up some sort of weird harmonic, and the bed is creaking softly. There, the scientific explanation again. I wish I was either better or worse at science. Then maybe I could move the cat to a spot that would damp out the vibrations, or I would just stop thinking about the problem and realize that Atticus the cat won’t stay anywhere. He’s a cat, not a counterweight.
It is just a bit too warm to sleep. Why is it 55 in January anyhow? Maybe I should wear a bit less sleepwear. I take off my sweatshirt. Now I am cold. I snuggle up to Jane. Now she wiggles and turns. She stops wiggling and I relax. I feel consciousness slipping away. Now my nose itches and I have to unsnuggle (is that a word?) to scratch the itch. I don’t want to ruin her sleep so I roll to the other side of the bed. I bump into Atticus. Now I am too warm again. Do men my age get hot flashes?
Did I mention worries? I have a few, and when you are half asleep, it is easy to make new ones. They don’t even need to make sense. Just take two completely innocuous facts, string them together, and come to a dire conclusion. The closer you are to being asleep, the better your worry generator works. If it gets really good, you can even worry about the lives of fictional characters. Will Hercule Poirot be able to clear Mr. Bates of the suspicious death of Mr. Green?
Since I am not sleeping, let’s try praying. This seems like a plan. There is enough to pray about, for sure, and as the Psalmist says, “The Lord gives His beloved sleep.” (Just not tonight.) Also, the Devil might not want me praying, so maybe he will try to put me to sleep to distract me from praying. Either way, I win. At 1:30 a.m., this seems like sound theological reasoning.
Alas, old Scratch must be thinking a few moves ahead. There are other ways to distract me. One of these is sending his minion, the cat, walking on top of me. Usually Atticus takes a few steps on me before using my pillow as a springboard to get on to the window sill. Our (step) Father (step), who (step)… never mind.
I am sorry, I should not have said that mean thing about Atticus. He is a Loki-worshiper.
Maybe I need a snack to get me sleepy, even though I don’t feel hungry. And I can check on the status of the kitchen ceiling repair while I am up there. Did the plaster patch really stay up in the ceiling, or did it collapse under the force of gravity? Watching plaster dry might even be soporific. Maybe I can sleep on the sofa. It won’t be good for my back, but then again, the snack won’t be so good for my waist. Oh wait, the cat has moved to the sofa. So much for that idea. Let’s try the bed again…
It’s 2:30 a.m., and I crawl into bed…