Most long-time readers know that sleep is very important to me and that I take great strides to maximize my zzz’s. I go to bed at 9 p.m. in hopes of a solid 10 hours. I have a mask, sound machine, weighted blanket, blackout blinds and extra pillows, the last for building a wall between me and my husband, Doo. Most nights are fine, though occasionally life sabotages my perfectly laid plans. Over the weekend, for example, I failed miserably.
For starters, I was not home. We were at Doo’s family reunion in northern Indiana, where 36 of us cavort under one roof for 72 hours. I had actually stayed in town an extra day to avoid the inevitable opening-night festivities, but as Murphy’s Law would have it, everyone was too tired that night and decided to save the main event for when I arrived. (Sarcastic yay!).
Despite bringing many of my shut-eye accoutrements, I could not fall asleep. I heard everything, from raucous laughter to heavy footsteps to slamming doors. At 12:30 a.m., Doo came in, smelling of cigarettes and booze and fun. I was still wide awake an hour later, debating whether to kick Smelly Pants out or move myself. By 2 a.m., I’d decided to seek refuge in the living room, hoping to claim a couch. After dispersing four angsty teenagers who’d been scarfing down Lucky Charms and playing video games, I curled up on the 30-year-old-plus sofa that I soon discovered had a faint armpit odor. Eventually, I drifted off and awoke around 7 a.m., when the little ones began filtering in.
So, epic fail on the sleep front.