Insomnia is boring. People think it’s interesting and somewhat funny, but it’s not. It just hours of laying awake in the dark, wondering if maybe aliens exist or if there might be a spider in your bed or how you’re going to get through the next day on only three hours of sleep. For me, I wait a reasonable amount of time before turning on a light and trying to find something to quiet my brain-- books, television, crossword puzzles, staring contests with my dog… it’s all futile.
I mean it’s good getting a chance to finally watch Beverly Hills Cop II for the first time in two decades, and waking my husband up by crunching on slightly stale Cheerios as a five a.m. snack is always entertaining-- misery loves company-- but at the end of the hour I feel like I should be doing something productive, since I happen to be awake. And not Facebook quizzes or Farmville, people. Something really important and dramatic and fabulous, like, say, writing.
The sad and ironic part of insomnia is that when you’re sleep deprived your normally sharp, witty brain takes a hiatus. There is nothing remotely clever floating even on the periphery of my brain. And as an added disclaimer I should say-- blogging at this early hour is probably not a wise choice. At all. Seeing as my alarm clock just went off (it’s finally six a.m., thank goodness) and I’ve been watching the minutes tick by since two. I foresee a hazy day in which I should not be allowed to operate heavy machinery, but alas in which I am also committed to helping 28 kindergarteners on their journey through education.
I feel good when I do parent volunteering in my daughter’s kindergarten class because I get a chance to see what they’re doing and watch her in her school environment. The downside is I leave vowing never to have any more children and wondering how saintly kindergarten teachers survive teaching those adorable five-year-old monsters for hours on end-- a new batch every year, year after year after year…. I think Maddy’s teacher has been at it for something like 21 years. It kind of makes me want to see if she needs a psychological evaluation. Because that is just nuts. Oh and in case I’m rambling and off on strange tangents here, refer to the above sleep deprivation experiment my body is performing on me.
I once found a notebook with something written in it that I had no knowledge or recollection of writing. I have a history somnuscription, just so you know. I have a feeling later on when I’m completely conscious I will feel that way about this blog. Being pregnant, even a nice Valium of a shot of bourbon (okay I don’t drink bourbon but doesn’t it sound like a delicious idea, something a decadent Southern belle type from New Orleans or Savannah would drink?) is not acceptable. Nor, apparently, is attention to or concern with grammatical or literary rules of any kind. I am all sorts of rebellious this early. Or late; I’m not even sure anymore.
One thing I found to do-- after I woke my husband up and tortured him for a while-- was to join Twitter. I kind of have always thought of it as something of a cultish website-- something I would feel vaguely guilty about getting involved with, like admitting I read People Magazine or watch reality television. Things people do but never talk about. But I found a whole new world at my fingertips that made me love the internet and want to write a sonnet to its beauty and grace.
I mean, I found Margaret Atwood on Twitter. Margaret Atwood! I’m sure it’s not actually her, some publicist or assistant or something but still. I am still in shock. Margaret Atwood! I want to dig out my copy of The Blind Assassin and read it while watching Margaret Atwood’s Twitter updates (tweets? I’m new). I realize this is completely insane-- I’m not a crazed fan type of person. I don’t collect autographs or attend personal appearances and I haven’t got a clue who’s wearing what on what color carpet at any given time. But geez! Margaret Atwood! Okay I’m done. I realize my excitement over that is ridiculous but still…. Ooh, I wonder if I can find Anne Lamott on there. I think I would probably pass out. Which, I guess, would in turn cure my insomnia….
I think it is time to sign off this potentially brilliant glimpse into my life as a crazy person. No doubt it will turn out like an ill-advised drunken phone call to an ex in the middle of the night… not so good. And still I post. Incorrigible.
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