For the first time since last Saturday, I slept a full night Thursday night.
I want to thank all the people who commented and e-mailed about my insomnia. There were a lot of good ideas regarding what worked for them, including:
Benadryl and whisky – Good use of side effects!
Plenty of beer and sex – A classic, but my birthday’s coming and I want to be able to act surprised.
Hot baths – I’m a big fan, particularly if it comes with bubbles and a book.
Warm milk – Since that little skinny kid in kindergarten kept his carton of milk on the radiator in the nap room, the very thought of warm milk, unless laced liberally with chocolate, makes me want to lay on a rug somewhere and wonder what’s wrong with him.
In the end, what worked?
I bought a new pillow.
And then I drank a six pack and had sex.
We all have requirements for our sleep. My parents were both raised in unheated bedrooms, a chilly proposition in Minnesota. The kids on my mom’s side slept three to a bed (all 14 of them), and my father’s family? Well they were just plain poor.
And because the unheated bedroom was how they were raised, it was how I was raised as well; and I’ve passed the love of the cold bedroom/warm bed along to my son.
You should’ve seen his face the year I got him a featherbed for Christmas – well, what 17-year-old male wouldn’t have been thrilled?
Here we are: believers in line-dried sheets and layers upon layers of blankets, preferably in an unheated room at the back of the house.
Funny how the seasons change one’s perceptions. Trying to remember July now is like remembering a photo: I was at the picnic table under the apple tree, wearing a cotton dress and no shoes, working on a post. The ice in my Salty Dog was melting; the kitties were tucked, under the ferns, eyes half-lidded in the shade; and the interwebs access was “very good”.
It was summer then, and it was time to be outdoors.
And now? Now, it is not summer. Now it is fall, when the sun sets before dinner, a time of burrowing, of hibernation.
Sleep, my pretties. Sleep.
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