I have GOT to get some sleep.
The bags under my eyes now have their own full set of Samsonite including garment bag, I am crabbier than a constipated baby and I feel like I’ve contracted the plague.
All because of Tony Soprano.
And Gordon Ramsay.
And because of the tornadoes, assassins, angry mobs and assorted former boyfriends and husbands who run into each other behind my eyelids each night. It’s like a dinner party for unwanted guests. Every. Damn. Night.
I don’t have a problem falling asleep. As a matter of fact I may have a touch of narcolepsy (not NECROPHILIA. Minds out of gutters, please). I’m out as soon as my head hits the pillow. My issue is with sleeping restfully.
I’ve tried everything. Do have a relaxing glass of wine before bed. Do not consume alcohol in the evening. Take a helpful little pill. Remain chemical-free. Relax after work. Work after work. Cuddle up. Get on the couch. More heat. More air conditioning. Blankets, aromatherapy, meditation, BAAAAAHHHHHHH.
This week, dear friends, Tony Soprano and his crew are visiting me in my bed, and they want something. Money, a favor, who knows? But there they are, and they aren’t happy.
Even Gordon. My Gordon. When he regularly invaded my sleep a few weeks ago, it wasn’t to take me to dinner or to show me his size 15 feet. Oh, no. I was back waiting tables again – for him. If you’ve ever seen him in action on television, you know it would be great fun to befriend him, but not, NOT to work for him. So I was screamed at for nights on end.
When I’m stressed – no, these aren’t even the stress dreams – tornadoes chase me. And CIA assassins. And muggers.
I’ve taken several personality tests (it has yet to be identified) and have actually puzzled over the multiple choice “dream” question.
At night do you dream: (Select one)
a. You are floating
b. You are flying
c. You are falling
d. You are being chased
I can’t choose one of those answers because I fall and am chased in equal proportion. And who the hell dreams of flying or floating? FLOATING? Are you kidding me? Maybe infants dream of floating in amniotic fluid, but after the age of, oh, nine months, does anyone really dream of floating? Seriously?
So what now? By the looks of what I’ve just written I should put down the laptop and go directly to a psych hospital. Go to confession? If only I had something juicy to get off my chest and it was that easy. Change my diet? Exercise? Exorcise?
The real rub is that sleeplessness has caused my face to become pallid, but not drawn.
What good is pallor? I want drawn, dammit!
If I could get some cheekbones out of this situation, it’d almost be worth it.