Every night, while my husband blissfully slumbers, I lay awake.
I won't bore you with the details. Instead, I will bore you with my coping strategies.
Coping Strategy #1: Extreme Home Makeover
When sleep alludes me, I pretend that I have an unlimited amount of money and resources, and mentally remodel my home.
Step one is always knocking out this wall. I picture myself swinging the sledgehammer, like a pint-size John Henry. I hear the crack of the drywall, and my imaginary self barely breaks a sweat.
But then it derails. Where would I put the blue Hoosier cabinet? It simply doesn't work in a living room! Perhaps we would need to tear out ALL of the cabinetry! And add a garage...and a sunroom....and a walk-in pantry!
And what the hell would we put on the walls? How do people know how to do this? Bunch of show-offs, if you ask me.
And why do we live in a 1200 square foot house anyway? How the hell are two teenage boys going to live here someday? Why can't we have nice things? And where is my VERN YIP, damnit!
Somehow, this is all my husband's fault. I am wide awake, heart pounding, furious that he is wasting valuable painting time by sleeping...at three in the morning.
Coping Strategy #2: I Become Pretty
When you're tired, you're not at the best place emotionally. Therefore, what better time to imagine unlimited money and resources for a full plastic surgery Mommy Makeover?
I think of this:
And just like that...the woman who believes that that there is nothing lovelier than a face with character imagines carving herself into something like this:
There's no sleeping after that.
Coping Strategy #3: I Think About the Blog
This is dangerous territory indeed. I imagine possible posts. At the time, they seem brilliant. Surely, THIS POST will be the breakthrough which will lead me to the book deal and the booking on Fresh Air with Terry Gross.
Sometimes, I actually get up and write them. This results in nonsense like Magic Juice and Dibs and Drabs.
At othertimes, I writes notes to myself. I stumble out of bed the next day to see snippets like "Talking Sex Toy" or "Big Lebowski Sweater" scribbled on the backs of grocery lists.
Rarely is the reality as good as the idea seemed the night before.
Occasionally, in these wee hours of the morning, I imagine that I got a comment right at that moment. The idea nibbles at my craninum. I attempt to ignore it until, finally, I hoist myself up to feed the beast.
Usually, I'm right. There's a comment. You would think such validation would lull me to dreamland.
Instead, I sit in my bed and think, "Maybe I got another comment."
Clearly, I need help.
I am running into doorjams and forgetting to turn on the microwave.
So, Internet, how do you go to sleep? My strategies are big fat fails, and if this keeps up, I really will look like Gary Busey.