I would love love to embrace Nabokov's view of sleep as “the most moronic fraternity in the world, with the heaviest dues and the crudest rituals.” How I wish I could truly function on the 4 hours of sleep my body is willing to dole out at a time and rush about saying things like, "Life is for living! I'll sleep when I'm dead!" Etcetera. Instead I chase it like that shiny, transparent butterfly on the Lunesta commercials. It might eventually light on my shoulder for a moment, but then off it flits to set up camp elsewhere (mostly likely on the immobile man next to me, blissfully unaware of his poor wife's midnight plight.)
Since we moved I've had to find new doctors for everyone, which means I had to try to explain my Little Problem to my new doctor and endure the inevitable assumptions, which are, in no particular order: 1) I'm depressed, 2) I never exercise, 3) I drink too much caffeine at night.
(Some of those assumptions might actually apply far more often than I will admit.) "So," the doctor said, "You must have some anxiety. What do you worry about at night?"
What do I worry about at night? Seabiscuit and Belinda Carlisle, that's what I worry about. And it's not exactly worrying. In an all-hands-on-deck effort to stay awake, my brain finds a little task that MUST be accomplished immediately, such as remembering the name of the lead singer of the Go-Gos. Or the name of that one famous racehorse, no, not Secretariat, the other one, also in a movie... what was his name? Let's ponder this from 4:00 am to 5:30 am, shall we?
There's only one solution here. It's been obvious for about 6 months now. I just need an iPad so I can easily look up the answer I need and join the moronic fraternity a little sooner.