So…sleep and I are experiencing a little bump in our relationship. And by bump, I mean that I love it and it hates me. It isn’t speaking to me anymore. No matter how much I whine and beg, it turns a cold shoulder, studies its proverbial fingernails and pretends not to listen, whistles while I’m talking, laughs in my tear-streaked face. It’s like a love-affair gone awry.
Not that I’ve ever had a love affair gone awry-ish, but you get my point.
I’m currently on night seven of Insomnia Despair So Bad That I Might Smother Myself. I shared this with a sweet friend who suggested a natural remedy. She gave me the name of the product and I nodded my approval to look smart. But inside my head I was all thinking, “why would a minty-mediciny-smelling ointment sold by Amway agents help me sleep better? Do I rub it on my arm? Do I swallow it and hope I don’t choke? Can I take it with water? Will it chase away bad breath? But then shortly after, it hit me.
She said Melatonin. Not Melaleuca.
So I bought some. And I popped one. And slept for two hours. The rest of the night I lay awake thinking, “Whymewhymewhymewhymewhymeeeeeeee…?” And the stupid sun rose and I got out of bed and went to work.
With that resounding success behind me, out of total desperation I decided to try again last night. I took another MelatoninNotMeleleuca. I went to bed. And I lay awake, listening wide-eyed as winds that might tempt pigtailed girls to scream, “It’s a twister, Aunty Em!” rolled through my backyard. It danced with my furniture across my patio. It ripped my downspout away from my house—but not completely off; no, it left enough hanging so that I heard a creak creak bang! noise over and over and over. The wind rattled my faucets outside. It (somehow) knocked around my shutters inside. It seemed all the metal around my house was singing me a song, with lyrics that went something like this:
“There’s no sleep for you. You’re gonna DIE!!
You’re so stupid to even TRY!!”
So songwriting isn’t my forte at 1am. Nor at 1pm, but whatever.
Somewhere between one and one-thirty I started thinking about the Benedryl I keep in my medicine cabinet for my allergy-prone children. I tried to convince myself that I felt a sniffle coming on, that my eyes were watery…my throat itchy. Maybe hives? But nothing. I couldn’t manufacture one stinkin’ symptom to warrant unnecessary drug-taking.
Then I remembered the bottle of some kinda wine tucked in the back of my refrigerator, left there from a holiday I can’t remember. I knew it was probably fermented, but that was the least of my problems. Because I hate wine. I think it tastes like I imagine guzzling a bottle of Chanel No.5 would taste. Gross. Disgusting. Why would anyone drink it? The only thing I like to drink ever is a Margarita, but who wants to drag out all that salt and Tequila at 1am? Plus, I didn’t have any Tequila. The only thing I have in my house besides the nasty wine is Rum extract. Somehow I didn’t think that would make a great drink.
It would, however, make a nice Christmas cake. But I didn’t feel like baking.
So I rolled over. And blinked. And shut my eyes tight. And counted sheep, which eventually turned into a plate of lamb chops in my mind and made me hungry. So now I was sleep-deprived and starving. But then somewhere around the time I was contemplating dragging myself out of bed to grab some popcorn and commiserate with all the other vampires via a Twilight marathon, I fell asleep. And woke up four hours later. Not great, but four is better than two.
Tonight, I’m gunning for six.
If not, I’ll be figuring out a way to sneeze.