2:01 am: Evil Beagle, the tricolored furnace, has wedged herself between me and My Other Half. I’m on the leg side. She is rigid, paws digging into my collar bones. We are eye to eye. She is snoring as if she is a morbidly obese drunk man with sleep apnea. She weighs 23 lbs. I shove her. She rolls over, entangled in my duvet. She’s a Beagle-rito. I have zero covers. I am freezing.
3:17 am: Evil Beagle and her deviated septum are by our feet. My Other Half is in the throes of a bad dream. In it, he is Manny Pacquiao. And this is a Title Fight. He is punching me and talking in tongues. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! I swear at him loudly. Punch back. He mutters he loves me, and blows an air kiss. He rolls over, still sleeping soundly. I have zero covers. I am freezing.
4:32 am: The Good Dog is up. He is ticky-tacking all over the hard wood floor. I debate clipping his nails at that very moment. I don’t know where the clipper is. He sighs loudly. Life is so tough. He flops back down onto his million dollar tempur-pedic dog bed, and begins to give his undercarriage a bit of a wash. I am in hell. Only I can’t be, because I am freezing.
5:53 am. “Wake-up” to some sort of critter running fartleks. WHAT THE HELL? Is it on the roof? Is in the wall? Did baby critters just hatch? I’m freaking out. The Good Dog growls, runs down the hall way. It’s outside. I’m on the front lawn in my jammies wrapped in a leopard blanket looking at a squirrel about to pull a Flying Wallenda onto the feeder. Is there a hidden camera somewhere? AM I BEING PUNKED?! Good Dog barks wildly then proceeds to pee on the tree which houses the feeder. You know, for good measure. It does the trick. Squirrel aborts mission. Peace has been restored.
5:59 am. I’m up. And have been. I pour myself a gallon of coffee and pad off into the shower, bleary eyed.
Amount of sleep: Next to nil.
This has been the story of my life lately. And guess what? It’s catching up with me. I am a haggard zombie. Even my skin looks tired. I have zero energy and my runs have been feeling it too. They’re “Meh” at best with dead tired legs. If my legs had eyes, there would be two X’s in place of eyeballs. They’re tuckered. I have had a negligible amount of sleep for MONTHS. First, it was because of stress, which I am happy to report ended with a big ol’ bouquet of good news. (Relive the joy, here.) And now? Other than last night’s
MMA fight circus? It still isn’t back to normal. It’s not for lack of trying either.
I have tried to get my sleep back on track with some minor success. I popped melatonin, drank chamomile tea, cut back on caffeine, and took warm Epsom salt baths with lavender before bed time, all in a bid for Sweet Dreams. Despite the best of intentions, The Sand Man Lost. Never being one to have sleep issues, I had naively assumed this disruption was transient. When stress went away, sleep would snuggle back in. Oh no, Poodle. That hasn’t been the story. Christ. I even bought a new mattress which is RIDICULOUSLY comfortable. I just need to get Princess Evil Beagle her own jazzy bed so she keeps her ass off of ours.
I’m just off. I’m hoping the change of season- longer days, natural sunlight and temps above freezing- all help. I’m also going to take a good hard look at my sleep, diet, training, health- the whole shebang. Something isn’t right. From sleep on down. I feel like I never recovered well from the Ultra I ran SIX DAMN MONTHS AGO. That’s just pathetic. I’m just kind of broken. And I need a fix. STAT.
Do you feel like a Sleepy Slug lately? How many hours of sleep do you get per night? Has your bunk mate ever punched you in their sleep? Sheesh.