Manufacturing Zs
I haven’t been sleeping well. I assume that most people go through phases of insomnia and restlessness and many times it’s a direct reflection of the curve of anxiety in their daily lives. I’ve been feeling a bit of stress lately; mainly in relation to the next step in the grand-but-sketchy career plan I’ve laid out. I routinely find myself waking to look in the mirror after 12-15 snoozes, looking ten years older than before I went to bed, with no time to shower.
Everyone, of course, has quirks in sleeping routines. My college roommate and close friend, Caroline, used to triangulate blankets around her face so that only her nose and mouth were exposed. I’ve been made aware of some habits as well—most recently by Amy, my bedmate for an upstate wedding, who let me in on some of the conversations I was having with myself in the wee morning hours. Once, during high school I had a dream that the boys I babysat regularly, had locked me in their hall closet. My dad was watching a movie downstairs and heard my pleas for release, as I had walked into my own bedroom closet and was banging my fists again the wall.
The answer for me is simple. I sleep best with weight. A friend once told me that W.H. Auden was known for taking pictures off the wall and putting them on top of his comforter when he was a guest in someone’s home. It would be a dream for me to fashion a blanket out of those torso X-Ray vests that dentists make you wear when they photograph molars. In this summer heat, however with or without AC, I simply cannot pile on the fleece and down. It is just too goddamn hot.
This week in reaction to my broken habits I’ve had a series of insane dreams. This morning, in fact, I awoke from my very first wedding dream. I’ve never quite imagined the act of getting married in a big white dress. I’m always a bit jarred when a woman says she’s been thinking of her wedding since she was six, or seems to react to someone else’s wedding story with an overabundance of her own preferences. I was certainly a girly girl—my mother was tolerant enough to indulge me from ages 4 to 10 when I refused to wear anything but dresses, with ruffles and tulle please—but I’ve never really imagined myself in a long white gown and longer aisle.
This morning however, in the midst of my Zs, I was a very angry bride. I was yelling because one of my hypothetical and unrecognizable bridesmaids had decided to go swimming in a river in my wedding dress. She claimed she didn’t realize it was mine. “Of course it’s mine, it’s the poofy white one!” I yelled. Meanwhile my hypothetical and unrecognizable husband was lounging at the end of the buffet table eating some grapes in the nude.
I’m half tempted to march to the closest book store and buy a book on dream analysis in order to deconstruct the seething bride I became just before the alarm this morning. Regardless, I think tonight I’ll pull up the living room rug, futon mattress, and maybe even the coffee table and try to balance them on top of my covers.
Everyone, of course, has quirks in sleeping routines. My college roommate and close friend, Caroline, used to triangulate blankets around her face so that only her nose and mouth were exposed. I’ve been made aware of some habits as well—most recently by Amy, my bedmate for an upstate wedding, who let me in on some of the conversations I was having with myself in the wee morning hours. Once, during high school I had a dream that the boys I babysat regularly, had locked me in their hall closet. My dad was watching a movie downstairs and heard my pleas for release, as I had walked into my own bedroom closet and was banging my fists again the wall.
The answer for me is simple. I sleep best with weight. A friend once told me that W.H. Auden was known for taking pictures off the wall and putting them on top of his comforter when he was a guest in someone’s home. It would be a dream for me to fashion a blanket out of those torso X-Ray vests that dentists make you wear when they photograph molars. In this summer heat, however with or without AC, I simply cannot pile on the fleece and down. It is just too goddamn hot.
This week in reaction to my broken habits I’ve had a series of insane dreams. This morning, in fact, I awoke from my very first wedding dream. I’ve never quite imagined the act of getting married in a big white dress. I’m always a bit jarred when a woman says she’s been thinking of her wedding since she was six, or seems to react to someone else’s wedding story with an overabundance of her own preferences. I was certainly a girly girl—my mother was tolerant enough to indulge me from ages 4 to 10 when I refused to wear anything but dresses, with ruffles and tulle please—but I’ve never really imagined myself in a long white gown and longer aisle.
This morning however, in the midst of my Zs, I was a very angry bride. I was yelling because one of my hypothetical and unrecognizable bridesmaids had decided to go swimming in a river in my wedding dress. She claimed she didn’t realize it was mine. “Of course it’s mine, it’s the poofy white one!” I yelled. Meanwhile my hypothetical and unrecognizable husband was lounging at the end of the buffet table eating some grapes in the nude.
I’m half tempted to march to the closest book store and buy a book on dream analysis in order to deconstruct the seething bride I became just before the alarm this morning. Regardless, I think tonight I’ll pull up the living room rug, futon mattress, and maybe even the coffee table and try to balance them on top of my covers.
posted by Rebecca at 12:34 PM
2 Comments:
That's nothing - I woke up wearing her weddin' dress
I MISS YOU SO MUCH (is that strange?) and these entries aren't helping. :-)
Post a Comment
<< Home