I have my own room tonight. With my own tv. And my own bathroom. All for the low low price of a thirty dollar co-pay. Soon a perfect stranger will come wire me for sound, tell me to sleep well, and possibly wake me up at three a.m. when that doesn’t happen.
It’s time to come clean and tell the truth—I.Snore. And I might apnea. We’ll find out tomorrow.
This is not news to my husband. Or my in-laws, or my sister or a couple of sister/friends. Nor is it news to my partner in crime, Thelma, who told me on our drive to Florida last summer that she was impressed by my imitation of a freight train in the room we shared overnight. Then she curled up in the passenger seat of my truck and fell asleep for two hours. Show off.
What I can’t figure out is how anyone who has ever been subjected to my late night sawtooth serenades has survived the concerts with their own health intact. I mean, doesn’t it seem like some kind of crime against humanity that I have subjected so many innocent souls to decibel levels usually reserved for airport traffic?
So I finally hit the wall of my own fatigue, yelled down the Jericho walls of fear so they’d get out of my way, and asked my doctor for a sleep study appointment. Jeez. I thought he could take a joke, but he took me seriously. I think he’s been talking to Thelma.
Now here I sit in my pajamas waiting to be outfitted with enough wires to light up that fake Christmas tree I always put in our front window. And don’t worry – I’m taking a photo of myself for posterity. You’re not gonna see it, but I’m saving it for . . . something.
So good night, dear winepress follower. I’ll let you know if I win the snoring contest that will take place in room 8. And if I’m very very lucky, it’ll be the last time I bring the house down with a performance like that.
With thanks to http://www.flickr.com/photos/stewickie/1111418685/ for the use of the sweet sleeping baby photo.