I’ve noticed a disturbing trend in my sleep patterns, and I think you should know about it.
Here it is: Every night, I wake up at 3:06. Every single night.
Well of course it’s to use the bathroom. And I’ve come to terms with that.
What amazes me, though, is that it’s always at 3:06. Always.
Twenty-five years ago, this would’ve wigged me right out. I would have already fashioned some either horribly gory tale about the dreadful murders that took place in my house at exactly 3:06 or a poignant tale of unrequited love that, well, somehow involves the numbers three-oh-six. I haven’t quite worked that one out yet.
And why? Because I’m a silly, gullible American made permanently irrational and superstitious by years of crap Hollywood movies, that’s why.
Dead people coming to life after they’ve been drowned/burned/thrown out of airplanes/blown into space? Well how else are we going to milk this to a sequel?
People leaping out of ridiculously improbable locations? Hey! Who doesn’t have something bursting through the interior of their waterbed? I’ll buy that!
Phone calls from beyond the grave predicting my imminent demise and what?! Speak up! What do you mean “will I accept the charges”? Sure! Why not?
Of course, I’m better now. Older and wiser and all that.
Unless of course I’m in the basement and the light goes out.
Or if I repeatedly get phone calls with no one on the other end.
No, really. I’m better now; and 3:06 or no 3:06, by 3:08 I’m back in bed, Liza Bean Bitey (of the Minneapolis Biteys) curled up next to Willie, Dolly G. Squeakers (formerly of the Humane Society Squeakers) pushing her wet little nose into my ear.
Now let’s see ‘em ruin that.
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