There Is a Light That Never Goes Out

I saw the world today through a miraculous Cloud of Grump. I planned – for the fourth day in a row – to switch my schedule around and get up and go to the gym in the morning instead of at night. And suddenly, thirty pops to the alarm clock later, it was the miracle hour – 8:15 – before I knew it. I’m certain that there is some deep, Freudian reason for this early morning self-sabotage, but at that hour, I don’t very much care what it is.

Sleep has been pretty shitty lately, so mornings come far too quickly for me to be happy about it. Mostly, I’m wondering what the hell happened that I can no longer make it through the night without waking up with a terrifying desire to pee. Is it just me? I can make it to 5 or 6 a.m. at best, and when that moment comes, it’s pain not unlike an overweight cow resting comfortably on my bladder, squeezing its torturously fat udders all over my lower abdomen (oh god, I just grossed myself out with the udder visual). And yet: I push through it. I convince myself that if I fall asleep again, I will no longer have to pee, and I will get to sleep – SLEEP! – right through the urge to pee, because who cares if you have to pee if you’re sleeping? You’re sleeping! Bladders sleep!

Well, my subconscious cares, and it cares deeply. Invariably, I have one of those dreams where I’m searching, searching, searching in vain for a bathroom – any bathroom at all, hell even a toilet standing on the side of the road – and yet, the only bathrooms I can find are a) disgusting and fraught with nasty wet toilet paper all over the floor; b) full of mysteriously broken toilets with lids you can’t actually lift; or c) occupied with some sort of wild public figure like Condoleeza Rice hovering over me, asking me really crazy questions while I try to eek out a satisfying pee ( “Tell me everything you know about Gitmo. What kind of fast food do they have? WENDY’S OR MCDONALD’S?”)

Thankfully, my bladder never wins the war over my subconscious desire to create scenarios to prevent myself from peeing the bed at the age of 30, so I wake up terrified over and over again, never fully get back to sleep, and then I have to get up around 7 a.m. to pee anyway. Which, wouldn’t you think that it would be a good idea for me to get up for good, for God’s sake, since I’ve already made it to the bathroom? Of course not. I instantly rationalize right then and there that because I didn’t get quality sleep for the last two hours because of Condi and the Bad Toilets, I must somehow make up for it right then, or I will be a miserable, tired wreck for the rest of the day.

Early morning bladder aside, our bed isn’t helping matters. A few years ago, we bought a giant, Michelin-man bed which, while awesomely large and spacious (which we need, as I am a spread-eagler, a snorer, a sweater, a solitary sleeper, and a host of other annoying sleep-related things), I fear we’re starting to abuse the vast field between us. A gander just now to my left reveals my phone, Adam’s phone, four television remote controls, the light/fan remote and a pair of wireless headphones I made Adam get a few years ago for his late-night television viewing (so he wouldn’t disturb my precious slumber). And mysteriously, there is also a pair of tweezers skulking around in there. Oh, and when we’re sleeping, we each put our respective (eye)glasses between the pillows, which means that I’ve almost broken them about a frillion times, in between bouts of almost stabbing myself in the eye with the tweezers.

And yet: I don’t change a thing night after night, even when I change the linens – I put the stuff right back where it was atop the fresh sheets, laid out to torture us again. Three times in the last two nights alone, I’ve rolled over in my sleep and cranked up the volume on the television, slammed the light firmly into the “on” position, and hit the fan on such a high speed it actually shook on the ceiling. It’s like I’m some kind of toddler who keeps touching a hot pan over and over again. Compulsive.

I’m rambling. Anyway, I had a grumpy day that also involved road rage, unfortunately on my part, and I’m shamed to admit that for a good half-mile today, I drove with my middle finger dangling out the window for the benefit of people who were behind me while I screeched out the window some sort of wild, irrational obscenity that I’m actually embarrassed about. There are moments, I am horrified to discover, when I fully understand why people who aren’t as…balanced as I am (?) can really lose their peaches and start shooting people in the streets over a poor driving decision. It just feels like such a personal violation of good manners, and the great irony is that I want to see their bad manners and raise them a good screaming match and maybe a middle finger or two. God, I just felt murderous towards that woman who wouldn’t let me merge as my lane was closing.

And lastly, after yesterday’s conversation, I will leave you with this bizarre opening line from the Glock website that reads like bad porn spam, and while it tries to affirm the idea that guns are a little on the dangersexy side, it cruises right past sexy into smarm.

I trust you will find it both informative and an enhancement to your shooting pleasures.

Well, indeed.

*The Smiths

18 comments September 19th, 2006