Sandman on Strike?

In my experience, intending to get a full night’s sleep and never actually getting one is synonymous with being a college student. In the last few years, there have been plenty of times when seven hours of sleep sounded absolutely luxurious, and somewhere between five and six hours sounded pretty darn decent. Don’t get me wrong – I realize that plenty of people are sleep-deprived, while some weirdoes are even content with their five hours of sleep. But, to quote a popular children’s story, “‘Not I,’ said the pig.”

Alas, I have really been trying to do better lately, and I’m feeling all the better for it. But, for whatever reason, Tuesday night was different. The fates conspired against me and, despite the fatigue I knew was hiding in me somewhere, my very alert brain would not forfeit itself over to sleep. To give you a feeling of what I went through, let me provide the following chronology:

9:00pm – Having talked to my sister on the phone for about an hour and a half, I am suddenly slammed with exhaustion. Yawns come in rapid succession, my eyes begin to water and burn at the same time, and I question if I can even get ready for bed without falling asleep first. I politely say goodbye, retire the phone to its cradle, and begin my pre-bedtime repertoire.

9:20pm – I am in bed. Lights are out, but I find my eyes scanning the room anyway. It’s the same blank, black canvas I could easily find on the backside of my eyelids, but somehow I find the room much more intriguing. Thoughts stir. Like a passenger on the bus who finds it nerve-wracking not to engage total strangers in conversation, my brain won’t shutup. I pretend I can’t hear him talking, but he seems oblivious. On and on he goes. And on. And on. And on. And on.

10:30pm – Having thought of enough blog topics to last a lifetime, I finally concede defeat. Like a white flag of surrender, I wave my bedsheet over me, throwing my legs to the floor and rising with a frustratingly accessible earnestness. I should not feel this alert. I do not want to feel this alert. Sleep has stood me up, and only now has the disappointment fueled enough anger for me to swallow my pride, stand up, and get out of there. I head to my living room.

11:10pm – I’ve spent the last 40 minutes sitting in a chair, mind racing, toes tapping. I've changed rooms, but I’m not anymore productive, nor am I anymore tired. Nevertheless, I decide to give it another go. Tomorrow morning is drawing ever more near and I’m upset that it refuses to acknowledge my situation and just lay off for a bit. But no, the clock keeps ticking. What’s the point? Sleep and I have always gotten along before. I guess I just misread its signals earlier in the evening. I head back to bed.

12:50am – After much diligence, remaining steadfast in my darkened room, I look at my clock for the last time before sleep finally comes. Not that it comes too quickly. It was most certainly after 1:00am before it had the audacity to waltz in like nothing had ever happened. Like a whore, I welcomed it to my bed without the slightest bit of shame. I didn’t ask where it had been or whom it had been with. I was just glad it had finally shown up. I knew that in just a few short hours it would slip quietly out the door and leave me blinking dumbly at an empty room. But I pushed the thought away. What did it matter? We were together. Finally, we were together.

6:22am – The jarring voice of the all-too-enthusiastic disk jockey is quickly brushed away by my fumbling hand. With false hope my eyes flash open, hoping to find that sleep has only gone to the bathroom and will soon be climbing back into bed with me, that it’s not actually gone. But no, there is nothing. I sigh and lean back against my pillow, curling the blankets up under my chin. Everything is as I had expected. I have no right to be disappointed, but I am. All the highs and lows of the night before seem like distant memories. All my bitterness is gone as I think of the sweet embrace sleep finally offered me. I sigh and stretch and drag myself out of bed. It’ll be okay, I tell myself. What’s done is done. We’ve gotten in tiffs before, but this time will be different. I’ll never go to sleep mad again. I promise.