(True story: Those same grandparents had a framed picture in their bathroom with this heartwarming inscription: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for I am the meanest sonofabitch in the valley.” Yes, this elegant bit of artwork lived in my grandparent’s bathroom, where a kid could enjoy its uplifting wisdom every time she went in there to relieve her bladder or bowels. You really can’t make this shit up. I do think it explains a lot, though.)
At the time, I thought her sleep weirdness was just one of those quirky Grandma things, like cheek pinching and tomato stewing and bobby pinning my bangs off of my face the minute I walked through her front door. But recently I realized that my grandmother wasn’t much older than I am now when I was born. She wasn’t some eccentric old lady with an unusually low threshold for midnight wake-up calls or an undiagnosed sleep disorder. She was middle-aged, hormonal, exhausted, married to a snorer, and probably fantasized daily about finally getting enough shut-eye that she’d wake up refreshed and well-rested, and not have gigantic bags under her eyes. She was me.
I really hate admitting it, but pretty much every human encounter I have starts like this:
OTHER PERSON: Hey, Jenna! How are you?
ME: Oh my God, I’m exhausted. How are you?
I’m exhausted, of course, for a million reasons. I have children. We have cats and dogs. My brain never shuts off. I’m a compulsive neat freak so when other people are relaxing or enjoying a nice TV show or book on a quiet evening,* I’m wiping out the crisper drawers in the refrigerator or organizing all of the Monopoly cards so that they face the same way in the box. My husband snores. Our neighbors fight, loudly and often. There’s a nest of the most obnoxiously vocal birds God ever created about four feet from my bedroom window, and those chirpy motherfuckers insist on belting out the song of their congregation from sundown to sunup with absolutely no regard for decency or day parts.
Health magazines and websites suggest my problem also could be my thyroid, midlife hormones, not enough exercise/water/vegetables, too much stress/caffeine/alcohol, or too few massages. Okay, fine, they never say the part about the massages, but come on! I can’t be the only one who tosses and turns at all hours of the night but is fully passed out fifteen minutes into any hour that I’m paying someone seventy-five bucks to touch me. Surely I am onto something here.
I’ve upgraded my bed and all of its accessories—twice—thinking that if I could somehow replicate the conditions of that delicious hotel bed I slept in like a comatose sloth,* routine sound slumber would be mine. Instead, I regularly lie in my elegantly appointed, impossibly plush overpriced cocoon and calculate how many more years of toiling I’m going to have to put in before the thing is fully paid off.
Try drugs, you shout. With all due respect, do you think I am a complete moron? If it’s reported or even suggested to help a person drift off, I’ve swallowed, slurped, or smoked it.* Lunesta, Sonata, Ambien, Nyquil, Melatonin, Unisom, Sominex, Rescue Remedy, chamomile tea, a fifth of Jack Daniel’s, a big fat joint; none of them have brought me blissful unconsciousness. Well, except the dope, but I think it’s safe to say I’m not really stoner material. I’m not much of a snacker, I don’t like the smell or the taste, and not to be all judgey or anything but I don’t think nightly toking would be setting the best-ever example for my daughters. (“Okay, girls, Mommy’s just going to take a nice big bong hit and go to bed. You guys be sure to brush your teeth really well, okay? And remember, just say no to drugs!”)
A little side note about sleeping pills. Remember when Kerry Kennedy, ex-wife of New York governor Andrew Cuomo and quasi-famous daughter of Robert and Ethel, was arrested on suspicion of DUI after she was found slumped over the wheel of her car in the wee hours of the morning? Turns out the incident was caused by “Ambien-induced sleep driving,” which apparently is a common side effect of the drug that leads people to get into their cars and drive them while they are asleep, often without any memory of the events. It sounds like pure bullshit, except I know that it’s not because it happened to my friend Anna.
Anna didn’t drive anywhere, though. But after popping an Ambien, without having any idea she was doing it, she padded to her computer and sent a Facebook message to a cute guy she’d met recently, asking him out on a date. (Fortunately, Anna was single at the time.) She didn’t stop there, either. She then found some stationery and a pen—she was dead asleep at the time, I’ll remind you—and wrote this gentleman a nice handwritten note (expressing her passionate desire for him, of course), which she proceeded to address, stamp, and place carefully into her mailbox before returning to bed.
Imagine Anna’s surprise when her secret crush called to thank her for the extremely zealous letter she had no memory of writing or sending.
“He’s offered to show it to me several times, but I think I’d rather not see it,” Anna says. The two are now friends, which is what usually happens when one person has some mortifying, incriminating evidence on the other.
Anyway, I probably don’t need Ambien anyway, as falling asleep isn’t the biggest issue for me. More often than not I can accomplish that part without too much unnecessary stress or pharmaceutical intervention. But when anything wakes me up—my beloved’s snoring, an ambulance siren a half mile away, run-of-the-mill axe-murder nightmares, remembering I forgot to mail a friend’s birthday card, one of my cats emitting her long, low, I’ve-captured-a-lizard-for-you-because-I-love-you-deeply-now-where-would-you-like-me-to-leave-its-headless-entrails moan—I’m up for the duration. Every time I complain about this in the morning, my husband says the same thing:
“Why didn’t you wake me up?” he demands. Of course, he means for sex. Because naturally he has no problem falling or staying asleep, ever.
“I would bloody fucking kill you if you woke me up in the middle of the night just because you were awake,” I tell him.
“Do I have to remind you that we’re different, Jenna?” he sighs. “Let me say it again: You can wake me up anytime you want, multiple times in a single evening for the rest of your life, if it means we can have sex.”
Is it bad that I’d rather have the sleep?
At least I’m not alone. A study by the National Sleep Foundation found that more than half of surveyed respondents would pick an epic night of sleep over a mind-blowing shag. (A decade ago, only 31 percent of us were more fatigued than frisky.) The same study found that 61 percent of us admit that our omnipresent cell phones are a big part of the problem, and I know this to be true because once, during a bout of insomnia, I texted a friend a funny cartoon I’d found on my iFunny app.
Hahaha, but what the fuck are you doing awake at 3:30 a.m.? she texted me right back.
I can’t sleep, I wrote, surprised to get a reply. Why are YOU awake?
I WASN’T AWAKE! she shouted back at me, all-caps style. SO THANKS FOR BRINGING ME DOWN WITH YOU.
Here’s a thought, I replied, pecking angrily at my tiny screen with two fingers and cursing the moron who designed the iPhone’s dysfunctional keyboard. TURN YOUR GODDAMNED RINGER OFF!
She texted me back something highly unprintable.
So I’m the asshole here because YOU keep your ringer on all night and I’m supposed to know this? I wasn’t about to let this go. Plus I was wide awake and had nothing better to do.
She must have gone back to sleep at this point. Lucky bitch.
I’m starting to think exhaustion might be the new global pandemic, like scarlet fever or the black plague or swarms of locusts were way back when. Pretty much everyone I know is running on fumes. My friend Michelle has decided that she absolutely has chronic fatigue syndrome, a self-diagnosis she arrived at after coming to the startling realization that she is fatigued pretty much chronically. No matter how many hours of sleep she logs, Michelle insists she can fall asleep anytime, anywhere, and that she never feels fully rested. Her doctor suggested regular, painful
Vitamin B shots and a daily bowlful of supplements.
“Notice any difference?” I asked a few weeks into her new routine.
“My pee is neon,” she yawned.
All of this exhaustion is not good for us. For starters, sleep deprivation is known to play a role in everything from heart attacks and high blood pressure to strokes and diabetes. (Of course, so is stress, so try not to get too freaked by all of that if you’re a lousy sleeper.) Too little sleep also impairs critical thinking and motor coordination, and has been linked to high-profile accidents including the Exxon Valdez oil spill, the Chernobyl nuclear meltdown, and the Three Mile Island disaster. As worrisome as that may be, I have to say it makes me feel better about splashing half-and-half all over the counter every morning in a sluggish daze.
Not so happy with what you’re seeing in the mirror lately? Blame that evasive Sandman. Those hours when we’re supposedly drifting peacefully through Dreamland are specifically designated for cellular repair and renewal. Fail to log enough shut-eye, and we’re left with dull, puffy skin and a halo of dilated blood vessels around our eyes. When insomnia becomes a chronic problem, forget about beauty sleep; nothing short of a medically induced beauty coma can help.
We’re our own harshest critics though, right? I mean, nobody else even notices your slack skin or swollen, bloodshot eyes, do they? Actually, they do. In one interesting Swedish study, researchers photographed a group of participants twice, once after logging eight solid hours of sleep and again after they were limited to five hours of rest. The researchers then asked a group of unwitting observers to rate the participants on how healthy and attractive they were in each set of photos. Across the board, the sleepy group was ranked far lower on almost every positive attribute imaginable. Are you getting the gist of this? People were labeling complete strangers sick and ugly after a measly three-hour sleep deficit.
I know, now you’re depressed. But wait, it gets even worse. If you’re sleepy and notice you’ve also been packing on a few unwanted pounds, it’s probably no coincidence. When we’re fatigued, our bodies are hardwired to seek out the pleasure response unique to consuming massive quantities of food. (This is probably one of those evolutionary protection measures, like our nervous systems assume we are so mind-numbingly tired because we’re being chased by a pack of saber-toothed tigers, so we’d better hurry up and eat something so we have enough energy to get away!) At the same time, the stress hormones that are released when we’re under-rested cause our pancreases to crank out insulin, which is also unkindly referred to as the “fat-storage hormone.” In other words, when we’re dragging ass, we’re actually encouraging our asses to stockpile fat so that they drag even farther and lower. Talk about irony.
There has to be a solution, I plead with my friend Google.
Try me, Google says.
So I search online—for the fifth or sixth billionth time—for “guaranteed sleep solution,” because there has to be one. People devote their entire lives to figuring out all sorts of nagging little conundrums. In the past year alone scientists have cured blindness and epilepsy in mice, grown viable teeth from stem cells, and discovered that chimpanzees solve puzzles for fun, just like humans. Surely somebody has been working on a pill or potion that will help us all do something that is supposed to come naturally but frequently, frustratingly doesn’t. I’m not asking to be turned into a hibernating bear; I’d just love to drift quickly and peacefully into unconsciousness, stay there for seven or eight consecutive hours, and then wake up perky and refreshed. Is that really too much to ask, Google?
I search and I search and I even set up alerts in case there’s a breakthrough in the middle of the night and I miss it because I’m very busy watching the numbers on my alarm clock blink. Most of what I find is about as helpful as “try to get more sleep,” a recommendation that sort of makes me want to punch the advice giver in the esophagus. Here’s a sampling of some of the best suggestions the sleep experts are doling out:
Don’t drink alcohol right before bed. I’m not sure how drinking earlier in the day is going to help me sleep better, but I’m willing to try it.
Reduce stress. Oh my God, why didn’t I think of this? I’ll just quit my job, stop worrying about saving for retirement, and put my kids up for adoption. I’m feeling sleepy just thinking about it.
Buy room-darkening blinds. Seeing as I get up long before the sun does every day, I am not convinced this will help me. But any excuse to redecorate—especially in the name of health and beauty—is always welcome, so I vow to start trolling Overstock.com immediately for sassy new window treatments.
Limit exercise for at least three hours before bedtime. Well, if they insist.
Have a nice snack before turning in. Supposedly, a mini-meal that contains both carbohydrates and protein an hour or two before bed triggers your brain to produce the calming neurotransmitter serotonin. And since that sounds highly scientific and also I do love a good grilled cheese sandwich in bed, I am definitely going to try this one.
Don’t overdo the snacking. On the other hand, going to bed with too much food in your stomach is a recipe for restlessness, the pros say. Clearly these assholes have never experienced the joy of shoveling four heaping platefuls of Thanksgiving dinner and a generous sampling of dessert into their pieholes and then falling into a deeply satisfying coma. Don’t buy this one, you guys. I say, eat up for better sleep!
Limit daytime napping. Hahahahahaha. Seriously, am I four? The last time I took a nap was about five years ago, after pulling an all-nighter on the bathroom floor during a nasty stomach flu episode. But thanks for the hot tip, sleep experts. Did you learn this in medical school?
Unplug your clock. Well, this one is just flat-out ridiculous. If I unplugged my clock, how on earth would I know how late it was and then calculate the bare-minimum amount of critical rapid eye movement sleep I would get if I fell asleep this very minute, which of course I won’t? I guess I could always check my cell phone, since I sleep with that thing under my pillow. With the ringer off, of course.
Do not sleep with your cell phone under your pillow. WTF?
Avoid bright lights before bed. So you’re saying that I shouldn’t turn all of the lamps in the house on full power at night as part of my relaxing, presleep ritual? Next you’re going to tell me I shouldn’t drink an after-dinner espresso!
Limit caffeine. See “avoid bright lights before bed.”
Practice good “sleep hygiene.” Which sounds like “don’t go to bed dirty,” but apparently, it means you should stick to the same bedtime schedule on weekends and vacations as you do during the regular workweek. I’m happy to report that my insomnia does not own a calendar, so I already do this! Yay!
Let it go. This is not actual, professional advice, but honestly, it’s pretty much all we can do. We’ll sleep when we’re dead. In the meantime, the next time you’re staring at your alarm clock and seeing if you can predict precisely when the number is going to flip, why not roll on top of your partner and give him or her a little midnight-special surprise? You may or may not pass out immediately afterward but fifty bucks says the trash will get taken out the next day without you even having to ask. It’s worth a shot.
CHAPTER 14
Please Don’t Make Me Run with Bulls
I am not lying when I tell you that until a year or two ago, I had never even heard of the term “bucket list.” Then all of a sudden I started seeing them all over Pinterest, and while I could tell these posts were some sort of extremely ambitious to-do lists, the term was confusing to me. What did climbing Kilimanjaro or learning Mandarin Chinese have to do with mopping a floor or milking a cow? I Googled bucket list and discovered that apparently there was a movie of the same name, directed by the brilliant Rob Reiner and starring the incomparable duo of Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman. In the flick—which I am pretty sure I haven’t seen, but I have been known to forget entire movies before the cred
its are finished rolling, so don’t hold it against me if I’m wrong—two dying men meet in the hospital and then set off on a raucous road trip with a list of things each wants to do before he, as it’s been so eloquently put, kicks the bucket.
That sort of made sense, but because I’m a dork I got to thinking about the phrase itself—again, what was the link?—so I kept digging. It turns out there are two competing theories regarding the origin of the expression. The most widely held one maintains that the saying came from the practice of hanging oneself, ostensibly by standing on a bucket to reach the noose, and then quite literally “kicking the bucket” away and effectively sealing the deal. I’m suspicious of this explanation, I have to admit. I mean how many people just happen to have a bunch of big, sturdy, empty buckets lying around when the urge to hang themselves strikes? Or even just one? If I wanted to kill myself in this particularly gruesome manner, I think I’d choose a chair or a ladder to hoist myself up to the rope rather than having to go out to the garage and dump a bunch of crap out of this bucket or that one and then hope that the damned thing wouldn’t crack as soon as I stepped up onto it. In fact, I’d pick pretty much anything over a bucket for this purpose: a durable wooden crate, a small stool, or even an end table would do. But I guess “kick the stackable-step-aerobics thingy” doesn’t have quite the same ring.
The other theory is that the phrase has to do with the wooden frame—also known as a bucket—used to hang animals by their feet for slaughter. In this uplifting and incredibly visual scenario, desperate, dying animals invariably “kick the bucket” as they lose the struggle for their lives. How this could have reached the tipping point of entering the vernacular is beyond me. “Hey, Bobby, did you see that sonofabitch kick the bucket? I hope I never kick the bucket, if you know what I mean.”
I've Still Got It...I Just Can't Remember Where I Put It: Awkwardly True Tales from the Far Side of Forty Page 14