Each of us has has “That Day.”
The one that starts at 3:48 a.m. with an itchy, spiraling subconscious and a toss-and-turn fest that isn’t sex.
The one that grows into crying in the driveway at 7:14 a.m. after pouring a mason jar of iced coffee under the driver’s seat of your car.
The one that bleeds into middle-schoolesque social interactions at 9:02 a.m.; 11:51 a.m.; 2:56 p.m. and then finally it’s 3:41 p.m. and you’re arguing with Siri about where the closest Big O Tires is because you have a half flat tire and absolutely no patience for her bullshit right now!
Picture courtesy of SingleGirlSurvivalGuide.com via Google
I have between four and seven of That Day every week.
On today’s episode of That Day, I found myself three hours ahead of sunset– which, in mid-spring California is damn early– and already very, very ready for either four bottles of Two Buck Chuck, or bed. Here we are at nearly sunset and I’m blogging, not sleeping, so I’ll allow your skills of inference to discern which option I fell face-first into when I finally– after reconciling with Siri, finding the tire place, waiting 45 minutes to get my tire repaired, and told I have, “The patience of Job,” by a mustachioed man named Larry–arrived home.
Photo courtesy of my iPhone’s screenshot option and Siri’s unwavering faith in our friendship
There is no ending That Day, or This Day, without wine. That’s science. But even if I’d opted to forego the vino and bury myself in my dog-hair riddled bed, here’s the rub when it comes to Me and Bed.
We fucking HATE each other.
I’ve never slept well. And I don’t mean, “I’ve never slept well this week,” or “I’ve never slept well under stress.” The entire, factual thought is, “I’ve never slept well.”
Not through the night, not when I’m exhausted, not when I’m happy, not when I’ve exercised, nor when I’ve eaten green eggs and ham. I will not sleep well, Sam I Am, and that’s the truth if I’ll be damned.
Doctors have told me to drink more water during the day. To exercise in the morning. To cut out caffeine. To drink less water during the day; exercise before bed; drink tea or warm milk– or cut out dairy!– take a hot shower, a hot bath, do some hot yoga, turn on a cold fan, and!
“Some people are just sensitive sleepers. You need to be patient with yourself.”
Photo courtesy of Google, dammit! If I found it there, that’s where it’s from. Get off my dick.
Did anyone tell Luke to be patient when the trash compactor walls were closing in and no amount of refuse from the mucky pile in which he was entrenched could ebb the steady progression? No. So why is, “Be patient,” a medically acceptable piece of advice when the crushing walls of insanity are eeking ever closer to demolishing my fragile consciousness, Stormtrooper disguise at all?
I’m tired. I’ve been tired for years. And today, which was another of That Day, plopped some hopeless atop my hot fuck-it-all sundae of sleepiness.
I’d like to stop having bad days because I am tired, and I know that my lack of patience with, well, all things but especially myself is the root of trainwreck days such as this one. But telling a starving person to eat doesn’t fill their stomach, so am I so wrong to feel it’s blasé when I’m told I need to be patient with my sleepless self?
Who knows. Maybe Jesus just wants me to be the Genesis of sleep. But I’m not buying it, Christ. Find a new poster girl. This one is going to bed.