It appears that I’ve given up sleeping.
And I used to be such a fan.
I take a prescription sleep-aid, of course. What middle-aged American female doesn’t? And so I fall asleep.
But I don’t stay there.
Whatever the reason, I am awake. I am awake and agitated.
I roll. I kick. I sigh heavily.
And so I begin another day by staring at myself in the bathroom mirror.
“Who,” I mouth at my reflection, “are you supposed to be?”
I stumble through the work week trying to appear alert. I focus, during meetings, on keeping my eyes open only to suddenly recall a brief fad in junior high of painting eyes on our eyelids.
My snorts of laughter are met with the concerned frowns of my fellow workers.
Sleepless Pearl cares not.
And it’s odd, but 2:51 seems to be my new preferred wake-up time.
A more superstitious, gothic-ly minded woman would affix a reason to this.
Perhaps something wonderful once happened at 2:51 and the house has never forgotten.
Perhaps something wonderful once happened to me at 2:51 and I remember only when I’m unconscious.
Perhaps I was murdered in another life at 2:51.
Oh, no! What if I was murdered in another life at 2:51? What if I will die at 2:51?
Worse yet, what if my bed-side clock is off by 10 minutes and I’m actually being prompted somehow about a two-for-one sale that I’m missing out on?
It’s easy to confuse me when I’m tired.