So I have this affliction I’ve named Summer Insomnia. Every summer since 1990, I’ve gone as long as ten weeks with no sleep. It started with a migraine. I don’t really get migraines anymore, so I think now it’s become a psychosomatic habit.
I really thought I’d get through this summer without a visit from the insomnia fairy. Then August 5th hit. Some sort of post-full moon heat wave crashed into the Hollywood Hills and I couldn’t get to sleep. “No matter,” I thought. “‘Tis just one night.” Yeah, right.
So… here’s what I’ve learned this time around:
* Oprah comes on twice a day.
* So do Leno & Conan.
* Newspapers are delivered between 3:10am and 3:50am.
* The mailman lady wears shorts.
* My landlady’s cat was originally named Adventure, but he never really responded to it. He likes Alphie better.
* The upstairs neighbor’s sex life is much less interesting than it was a few months ago.
* My dial-up connection is fastest and most reliable before 5am.
* I eat less food but more frequently when I don’t sleep.
* With all these hours, I still procrastinate.
* Every game of Free Cell is, in fact, winable.
* Madame Cleo is on every channel at some point each day.
* I see dead people.
* Unwanted hair removal is a national epidemic.
I’d like to take a moment to express my shock over that last discovery. I guess, as hair goes, I’m bodily bald. I only recently bought tweezers (something about nearing 30), my legs only show the finest blonde pseudo-stubble about five days after shaving, and I’ve never had to bleach, wax, or otherwise melt or burn hair from my… regions.
So, maybe I just haven’t been paying attention. Based on the hours of infomercials I’ve logged this month, I’d guess that the average woman spends a great deal of time focused on the removal of her unwanted hair.
Wow. I guess I need to be grateful for my pale, Irish-Scottish… uh, roots. I’m sorry, my brunette sisters. I always thought “removal of unwanted hair” meant pulling a stray off of your tongue.