Mr. Sandman

I like to sleep. I would put it right up there on my list of favorite things to do.  I know that sounds pathetically boring, but it is what it is.  I’ve never been one to seek much adventure.  Besides, I’m always tired. Always.

One of my college professors told me that on average, he gets 4 hours of sleep per night and always feels refreshed and rejuvenated when he wakes up to start a new day.

He was an odd duck.

Nevertheless, I spent countless hours in his classroom learning very fascinating facts regarding anatomy and physiology, yet this is the one thing that I continue to ponder to this very day.  How is that physiologically possible? I want to know.  I should’ve asked him.  Why didn’t I ask him?

Because it was college, and who asks questions in college, unless it’s in reference to where the next party is. Right?

Here’s what I think, nobody feels rejuvenated and refreshed after four hours of sleep or less.  N O B O D Y (unless it’s a nap). I’ve thought long and hard about it and have come to the clear conclusion that he was either a robot, a liar, or never had kids.

That’s it!  He never had kids!  Maybe I could function like a normal human being if I had four hours of uninterrupted sleep on a nightly basis.  It still sounds like a long shot, but stranger things have happened.

Regardless, get ready to learn something people (sort of).

Research has shown that there are generally four stages of sleep. The first one involves drifting off to the point that your body often produces an involuntary and sudden muscular jerking motion as it fights off your brain’s urge to shut down.  If you have a husband that snores, this is the exact moment you wish with all of your might that your involuntary and unintentional muscle contraction results in a stiff upper left hook to his face because after all, his obnoxious “noises” are the reason you were temporarily brought back to life in the first place and as a result now have to go through stage one, again.

Stages 2 and 3 involve transitioning peacefully into a very deep sleep. This is when your body repairs itself from the shit storm that you put it through that day and prepares you to get your ass out of bed and function the next day without looking and/or feeling as if you were just hit by a truck.  Your body is so relaxed and nonresponsive during this stage that you might even wet the bed, but won’t give a shit about it because you are so peaceful.  I refer to this stage as the unattainable “big fat fuck you” stage.  No amount of wine, Tylenol PM, or magical ointments rubbed in a circular counterclockwise motion on your temples will allow you to achieve it.  Oh how I long to be so deep in slumber that I piss the bed…the same one that my snoring husband shares with me.

Stage 4 is referred to as REM (Rapid Eye Movement) sleep.  This is the stage where your eyes (although closed) go bat shit crazy in their sockets trying desperately to free themselves from all of the anatomical shit that holds them in place.  A better, more free place.  A place that does not involve being involuntarily confined to a person’s face while having absolutely no control of their own destiny.  A place where at the end of the day, they can choose what they want to look at.

Sorry little buddies.  Physiologically speaking, you need a brain to function.  Without one, you are simply just a Halloween party favor.  What can I say, reality bites.  Don’t shoot the messenger.

Sometimes I start writing with a clear topic in mind and then mid-way through realize that I have once again went off on a ridiculous tangent and have no idea how to bring it all together. This is one of those times, and I am not about to start over.   

In summary, I am tired because I have a husband that snores, two creepers who at separate times during the night quietly sashay into my side of the bed, both of whom forgot their stuffed animal friends, whom they cannot sleep without, to which I immediately retrieve (separate times), and then proceed to channel my best hot dog impression in the middle of them both because God forbid they touch each other or Daddy dearest, who is occupying 2/3 of the bed and sleeping like a goddamn baby.

“Dad smells funny and he’s making creepy noises.”

The remainder of the night involves me trying desperately to remove myself from the hot dog bun in a manner in which if I was successful would certainly qualify me for an extended headlining magic show contract in Vegas.

Vegas sounds nice, and I’ve heard it’s very calming for the spirit.

Maybe someday.

Regardless, it always ends the same. Birds chirping, blinding sun piercing through the tiny gap between the curtains directly into the same two eyeballs that waged war on me the night before, and at least one child who annoyingly rolls over and tells me that I smell like Cheerios.

It’s the sweating. Between my eyes throwing a kegger inside my head all night long and my physical self desperately racing around from bed to bed to bed every thirteen minutes to find somewhere, anywhere to comfortably rest my weary head, it’s inevitable.  I stink.

“Mommy, can you wash my sheets today?”

Not a fucking chance.

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