I can’t remember when I last slept for eight hours straight. Five hours of sleep means I spent the day playing spider solitaire and watching reruns of the X-Files. Six hours follows running a marathon, cleaning the garage, and drinking a quart of warm milk with a handful of aspirin.
Napping always puts me in mind of my Grandpa Matti. When we visited our grandparents, Matti would retire to the Sauna each afternoon to sleep on a hard wooden bench. He found splinters in his butt preferable to listening to pounding on the piano and the constant clink of the glass lid on the candy dish. Weird.
I’m way too proud to lie on the bed (or rest my head on a 2” by 4”) in the middle of the day. This means that my napping is done on the couch, while watching said reruns of the X-Files. Shortly after the opening theme song, my eyes slam shut, my mouth hangs open, and drooling commences. I am not a sexy sleeper.
Movies tend to romanticize sleeping. When the heroine wakes up, she doesn’t have hair smooshed down on one side of her head, her false eyelashes are not migrating towards her ears, and nobody has morning breath.
This morning my husband said he woke up during the night. He went into a mild panic when I stopped snoring. Apparently, my temporary lack of a sinus serenade was cause to check my pulse and call for the coroner. There is nothing sexy about being mistaken for dead if I’m not snoring.
I haven’t worked since my neck surgery a year ago, so at least I’m not drooling on a computer keyboard for the entertainment of coworkers. That’s not a starring role I want posted on YouTube.
My husband has seen me sleeping and still thinks I’m sexy … when I’m conscious. I could be decked out in the Victoria’s Secret wet dream ensemble and he still would not wake me for sex in the middle of the night. Every man has his limits.