SLEEP ANXIETY

Whenever I am slated to do something specific in the morning, I fret the night before. I fret about getting enough sleep. I say to myself, Okay then, You—Missy, need to meet Coworker at 8AM tomorrow morning at Dr. X’s office. So if you want to mosey though your morning rituals like you enjoy doing, you’re going to need to get up at 6AM, thus you need to be abed with your crossword puzzles at 930PM and snoozing at 10PM, ya hear? And then, because there’s an agenda and expectations, I begin to fret. When I fret, I can’t get to sleep. When I can’t get to sleep, I fret. And I lay in bed, knowing that to appear bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I need my eight hours. And I fret because I know that I’m right now not getting that eight hours. Fret. Fret. Fret.

It happened last night. Had an early engagement this morning, tried to get to bed early last night, got there on time, completed my nightly crossword puzzle, switched off the light, snuggled in next to my dog, promptly began fretting. As I rehearsed my fret ritual, I recalled some expert somewhere saying something to the effect of If you want to avoid troubles sleeping, remember that the bedroom is for sleeping and sex; if you can’t get to sleep, get out of the bed. So out I got.

I wandered to my little office. I switched on my little space heater. I woke my computer up—I mean, if I can’t sleep, no one gets to. I recalled the gigantic stash of candy for work stuffed at the top of my closet. Jelly Bellies. Laffy Taffy. Truffles. Hershey’s Crème de Menthe Kisses. Hershey’s Lemon Cream Kisses. Dove Caramel Chocolates. Dove Dark Chocolates. Dove Milk Chocolates. Hershey’s Minis. Werther’s Originals. M&Ms. If only that was all the stash contained. I was bored. I sampled. And then I sampled some more. And then I enjoyed a few more samples.

Sophie watched me chomp on the contraband with a look on her face that said Oh you daft fool. You’re going to loathe your self tomorrow . . . It must have been late if my brain morphed my Yorkie into my dietary Jiminy Cricket.

After the stupid midnight sugar intake, my brain of obviously diminished capacity told me that it required some salt. So I hopped down the stairs to the kitchen. In the fridge, I was forced to ask myself, What works? What’s going to nullify the sugar dancing through my veins? The Portabella mushroom? The red pepper? The Teriyaki-glazed baked tofu? The tomato juice? I stood there in my pajamas, bedhead already in the works, with Sophie at my feet, perusing the contents of my always empty, always neglected refrigerator. And when I came upon the shredded low fat Mexican blend cheese, I snagged it to make a grilled cheese sandwich. It did the trick.

And Sophie was right. I loathe myself today.