“To sleep, perchance to dream . . . .” – William Shakespeare
I realize that the above Shakespearian quote refers to death, (a subject for my next post) but today I’d like to talk about sleep; or the lack, thereof.
I am the type of person who needs her sleep. Sure, I can go a couple of days with very little sleep, but eventually it catches up with me. I’m not the quickest hare in the race to begin with, so when sleep deprivation gets thrown in, I don’t need a tortoise to act all superior toward and believe I’ve got it all under control when I don't, because I know I never had control in the first place. (And first place, co-incidentally, is the place the tortoise came in during the race, if I remember the Aesop’s fable correctly.) See what just happened? This just goes to show you how sleep deprivation affects me. I'm so easily distracted. One minute I’m talking about sleep, and the next I’m talking about Aesop’s fables, not to mention Shakespeare. (Speaking of which, I wonder if Shakespeare ever called himself will. i. am, like the guy from The Black Eyed Peas? But I digress . . . again.
I tried to sleep in this morning, but all I did was lie there listening to the birds, whom I normally love to listen to, screeching - in what was obviously their newly formed rock band designed to purposely keep me awake - outside my bedroom window. I yelled for the cat to see if she would jump in the window and scare them away, but she was already there, apparently enjoying the concert. I think I muttered something about her being useless and warned her not to jump in front of me when I got up, because, in my drowsy condition, my feet and my head were not simpatico, and she might find herself between a foot and a floor place.
It’s not like I don’t try to sleep at night, but menopause can be a selfish bitch who wants all of your attention. First she makes you so hot that you not only pull all the blankets off, but you wish you could pull your skin off as well. Then you get cold and have to find all the blankets again. (And the wool socks you pulled off that are hiding somewhere at the bottom of the bed.) Meanwhile you look at the clock thinking, “If I could just fall asleep now, I could still get four hours of sleep before the birds form their rock band." (Actually, I had no idea about the rock band at this point, I just wanted some sleep before the sun came up.) And then you listen to the birds warm-up act; which, of course, is your husband snoring. Sweet dreams are not made of this.
I don’t know if I’m making any sense at all. I only hope I do later this afternoon when I go to work. If not, it should make for an interesting evening. I just hope I don’t ramble on about bird rock bands (although “The Birds” were an awesome band) or will. i. am. Shakespeare.