Monday, December 22, 2014

     














     It’s 3:24 a.m. Joy. No comfort. Wide awake watching the fishing channel is not my idea of merriment. After four hours of tossing and burning, I sit before the squawk box attempting to entertain myself until Mr. Wonderful gets up, and I can hop back into the warm. One would not think that 68 degrees demands wrapping myself in blankets in the big chair, but at my age, I’m cold unless it’s at least 78. Good grief. When did this happen?

     When I was a kid, I never woke up during the night, I was hot at 45 degrees, and I slept in a sheet. If this is what aging does, don’t sign up. Run the other way. Avoid it at all costs. When you figure out how to do that, write a book. Fortunately, retirement allows me to return to bed and stay there however long I choose, or I can opt for the afternoon snooze or both. 

     Such thoughts as wishing I had something to open under the Christmas tree are selfish and shameful, so maybe that’s why some greater force woke me up out of a senile slumber. Wondering what dessert I would make for guests Wednesday night was also a concern at 2:37 a.m. wtf. No one even needs or wants dessert, but it’s part of the drill when giving a dinner party. How to justify paying some guy to paint my toe nails was high on the list of anxious thoughts just after midnight. As my toe nails are beginning to thrust through my stilettos, it’s time. I decided to raid my piggy bank and go for it. All of these random messages are scrolling through my psyche. Time for bio-feedback. Seemed like a good idea, but it simply reminded me of how hungry I was, so I booked it to the cereal box. Autumn wheat can cure anything, at least temporarily.


     It’s now 5:46 a.m. Yay. Only 45 minutes before I hear Mr. W. preparing his breakfast downstairs. Meantime, I will prepare for nap number one by watching the morning’s bad  news . . . zzzz. . . . zz. . . . z