You're…getting…sleepy….sleepy…WAKE UP!
I'm sure the Gen X crowd in their forties, have problems of their own, and god knows Gen Y has been groomed for disappointment, but nothing those younger folks experience compares to the defining hassle of Generation Zzzzzs: We can’t sleep when we should; we nod off when we shouldn’t.
One of my baby boomer pals takes Paxil to grab REM. His wife has to hear the hum of two box fans blowing before she shuts down. Linda moved out of the marital bed because Neil’s snoring kept her awake. Joseph uses a blindfold, Rosemary, earplugs.
Me? I used to sleep like a baby.
Back in the Old Country, I waitressed past midnight, then stayed up until dawn writing poetry. I was in my 20s. It seems quaint now. Who even reads poetry, let alone writes in longhand anymore?
So sleeping, like whenever, worked fine back in the day. But I always just said no to napping. Where I'm from, we must always be ready to run, one bag packed, one eye on the doorknob.
Husband Number Two, on the other hand, comes from placid Pilgrim stock.
Very relaxed he is.
Sometimes the Husband dozes off during a play. And if a movie lasts more than two hours, it's just a matter of minutes before his head starts slumping to the side.
Me—a paranoid--I tried to forbid him from napping, but see photo.
INSOMNIA
When I was in my thirties, my mother would throw her hands up in the air trying to talk sense into my alternative ways and say “everything’s an argument with you!” She must have been onto something, because in The Middle Ages, I've argued myself out of a good night’s sleep.
Why? Let me count the ways.
First off, I blame the neighbors that peed on my fence and sang round after awful round of “Baby I’m amazed baby I’m amazed baby I’m amazed baby I’m amazed.” (baby, I’m homicidal). I could also count on late adrenaline spikes thanks to the self-proclaimed “artists” next door that threw 24-hour parties and promised to bring over home-made cookies if only I would understand they were, you know, artists. The ones to whom I, you know, yelled, “if you declare yourself an artist YOU ARE NOT AN ARTIST!”
Many remedies stormed the barricades, but my Insomnia had no suns, only black holes. The sheets lay before me like atomic matter.
So I once spent a few months knocking myself out with Scotch. Hops are hopeless. The homeopath suggested I snort lavender. Instead, I heard the advancing invaders laugh as they trampled the stalk.
Then, on doctor's orders, I tried Xanax. I shoveled broken bits of tranquilizers in.
Still, the mattress drowned in a tide pool of wakefulness. No amount of sandbagging would work. Forsaken by Morpheus I was I was.
When prescription meds failed, I became a realist. I would never become Nordic or blonde. My legs would never grow long enough to live in Pacific Palisades.
These legs were like conquistadors beating back the mob, the restless bully legs.
So I made up my own remedies, which on a good night knock me down the REM rabbit hole. Here's what works for me: white-noise machines, blackout curtains, cover up all lighted digital displays, no ticking clocks, and HGTV reality based real estate mind-number Love It or List It.
TV AS SEDATIVE:
I remain a night owl and get my second wind around midnight. But these days the wind don’t blow much after 12:50.
Sometimes Charlie Rose lulls me to sleep, but not when he trots out all those CEO con-artists who put their corporate speak spin on the economy. That gets me in a three-cup-caffeine leftie mode. Where is Dr. Doom (Nouriel Roubini) when you need him?
After Jimmy Kimmel’s monologue and then a quick check see if Letterman does a rant at the desk (still worth it), I click over to Love It or List It, recorded on the DVR. When realtor David (list it!) and renovator Hilary (love it!) work their magic on some hapless couple, it's better than pharmaceuticals. I never make it to the reveal.
I welcome any other suggestions and remedies. Just don’t text me—the lighted display will ruin my sleep!
