I’ve never mastered the art of sleeping, even after reading a half dozen books authored by professionals claiming to be great sleep experts. How smug they must be hiding behind the authoritative lines of print in the paperback books that line my bedroom shelf. At three in the morning I have delightful dreams of tracking these phonies down and destroying their sleep aid devices.
I want you to know I do all the right stuff. I don’t use my computer or watch Dexter before going to bed. I don’t do anything in my bed but attempt to sleep. I don’t eat or drink before reclining. I talk to each of my limbs and advise them to leave me alone.
I close my eyes and focus on thinking about absolutely nothing.
Then my right hip begins to throb, shooting pain down my leg to my foot. I’m smart. I know the pain is not actually coming from my leg, as what seems apparent, but from my brain.
After an hour of pure discomfort, I gently say to myself, “To hell with this stuff, I’m going to finish my book about Thomas Jefferson.” It’s right next to my Happy Sleeping books.