Snooze. Lay the head down. Close the eyes. A nap. Forty winks. Blow-up mattress. No bedbugs thanks to Roscoe. Still, I’m sleep deprived. Immediately the sun shines only Krazy Glue will keep my lids open.
Experts — types who yawned through school — say sleeping one hour less than seven hours “reduces the life span by two years.” In that case, I should have passed away at age 12.
To not stumble around all day like a zombie takes tricks. One young virile college stud’s main subject is sex. So that’s his preamble for going to bed. First he goes to bed.
Spinsters hunting for things cuddlier than cashmere sheets say really needed is to tuck a beast, something warm and hairy, under the covers. I got that. But two Yorkies curled under an armpit doesn’t do it. In the dark, the sound of pleasure shouldn’t be a bark. Also Jazzy, my 4 1/2 – pound boy, snores. My husband didn’t. Great Danes don’t. My dog does.
Others swear that come time for taps, a sip of vino relaxes them. Fine, but that’s only for the rich. With today’s price of wine, boozers can’t be choosers. I house-guested with friends. He said: “One more drink, and I’ll feel it.” She said: “One more drink, and I’ll let you.” That weekend taught me the difference between a drunk and an alcoholic. Drunks don’t have to get up in the morning.
Old-time comedian Milton Berle was addicted to sleep tools. Couldn’t rest without them. Never traveled without them. When he turned in he plugged in a recording — the sleep sound of surf splashing softly against the shore. Plus he packed a security blanket. His mother had tucked into his crib what finally became an old torn ratty tatty chewed raggy little pillow. Never a night it wasn’t in his bed. He’d maybe leave home without American Express, but never without this.
Lotsaluck telling a physician you can’t sleep. There’s what’s called parasomnia. Plus dyssomnia. Hypersomnia. Sexsomnia. Circadian rhythm disorder. Delayed sleep phase syndrome. Non-24-hour sleep/wake syndrome. REM disorder. Somnambulism. Somnipathy. Polysomnography. Narcolepsy. Hypersomnolence. Enuresis (Bed-wetting).
Apnea. Sleep talking. Sleep terror. Sleep paralysis. Exploding head syndrome. Psychosis. Mood disorders. Depression. Anxiety. Panic. Bruxism (tooth grinding). Hypnopea. Nocturia. Multiple Sleep Latency. Actigraphy (assessing sleep/wake patterns). Idiopathic Recurrent Stupor. Somniphobia.
OK, we clear on all this?
MDs have dredged up designer insomnia. Transient insomnia. Acute insomnia. Chronic insomnia. Middle-of-the-night insomnia. Terminal insomnia. Fatal familial insomnia. Subjective insomnia. Para insomnia. Rebound insomnia. Also primary, secondary or comorbid insomnia. One way to get your zzzzs is listing all these miseries that docs, who lie awake 11 p.m. to 6 a.m. trying to figure how to squeeze more money out of us, diagnose.
And shove palliatives like Ovaltine, crossword puzzles, or a glass of warm milk, which cow farmers always recommend, let’s hear it for restless leg syndrome.
Working in London, a known actress kept a small light on when she said nighty-night. Despite this lit bulb at 2 a.m., a door slammed behind her. Only not the john door. Following the hotel’s emergency exit light, she was out in the hall in see-through nightie — at an age you shouldn’t see through — with her room door locked shut. She had to ring for the stunned elevator operator.
Some humans prefer total darkness. Many slumber with socks, others uncovered bare feet. Door open, door closed. Stiff mattress, saggy mattress. Duvet and quilt, electric blanket. Warm room, cold room. Shades up, shades down.
Money, in medicine, talks. Doctors hear it through their stethoscopes. After a nurse checks your insurance, the sleep specialist asks, “Soft pillow or hard?” Hard. “Try soft.” Explain sometimes there’s bad dreams. “Like I dreamt I was eating shredded wheat.” His prescription? “When half the mattress is gone come back with a check for $3,500.”
They tell you, “No coffee,” like we all tumble into bed with a steaming mug of caffeine. They prescribe Halcion, Ambien, Lunesta. “Red pill will make you dream of Gwyneth. Pink one makes you dream of Madonna. Yellow you dream of Nicole.” The patient, my nephew, took two of each and refused to wake up for a month.
Shove the opiates. Fie on sleep masks and earplugs. There’s a thing called Insomnia Cookies. Four warm, gooey flavors — white-chocolate macadamia, peanut butter, chocolate chip and some sugar wafer. My friend tried them all. She ate whole boxes. She gained two hours of rest and 40 pounds.
Today’s lifestyle contributes to awakeness. Colic baby cries. Aging husband gets up to pee. Cellphone all hours. And that nonstop nagging in your head: my blood pressure’s OK? . . . another fare hike? . . . my kid ever get into Dalton?. . . my kid ever get out of Dalton??? . . . can I fit into that shmatta for the wedding . . . won’t those next-door pigs ever stop playing drums . . . why shrieking fire engines and ambulances at 4 a.m.? . . . some 23-year-old twinkie’s been hired, is my job secure? . . . how to deal with my mother-in-law, who I hate more than life.
Listen, best way to fall asleep? Tune into a politician on TV.