I’ve never seen the entire movie Sleepless in Seattle, but I gather it’s about a widower who talks to a radio shrink about being lonely and his nine-year-old son fixes him up with Meg Ryan. I might have missed a few plot twists. I’ve never been good at sitting still for ninety minutes unless I have a book to read and a cup of tea.
Freshly brewed English Breakfast sits next to me now, in the infuser that Jenny Rosen gave me, on a tile to protect the beautiful wood of the secretary. I only got three hours of sleep last night, between 3:00 a.m. and 7:00 a.m. At 2:30 I had the good sense to check for the time of my morning court and re-set the alarm.
My newest sleepless trend started two nights ago. On Tuesday night, I binge-watched Molly Ann Wymer videos. Last night I played all my Words with Friends moves and scrolled through the Food Network On Demand. I finally settled on recordings of Beat Bobbie Flay. He lost four out of five and I got an idea for Saturday night’s potluck dish.
In the hazy hour between two and three, I reflected on this temporary relapse into insomnia. By contrast, in the last six months, I’ve set my lifetime record for consecutive hours of unmedicated sleep. Though I still drag around in a state of constant exhaustion (my lot in life — “fatigue even at rest”) I don’t yawn as much and I’m not nearly as cranky. I think. Maybe? Anyone?
I won’t moan about the details, but this, too, shall pass. I’ll get back on the regimen of five or six unconscious hours between midnight and the trill of the cell phone at six. The most harm that might befall me as far as I can tell, will be getting smacked upside the head with a hefty board of realization that life can be worse, and it has been getting better.
It’s the twenty-eighth day of the twenty-fifth month of My Year Without Complaining. I’m no Meg Ryan and I haven’t met a handsome widower but I’m not complaining. Life continues.