More often than not, I get a good night’s sleep. This is remarkable considering my middle-aged lady hormonal weirdness, the mishigas in my life, and my history of secondary insomnia.
My sleep has been so luxuriously dreamy and reliable enough that I have not refilled my prescription to Klonopin, the Mother’s Little Helper that got me through a custody battle, demise of my second marriage, and yet another move.
Perhaps most remarkable is my ability to sleep through the nails-on-chalkboard noises of the barbarians next door. The 20something party boys who sit on their filthy, butt-laden, barbell-littered patio, smoking cigars, chugging Yellow Tail, and mindlessly entertaining various skanks. Every night I lie in bed inhaling the fumes of their cheap cigars, my blood boiling as the cacophany below ratchets ever louder.
One night, at 1:00 a.m., I pushed my blinds apart, ready to yell at the heathens to shut the (insert expletive) up. Until one of them glanced up at me, grinned and waved, then returned to his sophomoric anecdote which spurred a chorus of giggles from the skanks. Realizing I was the captive of passive-aggressiveness, I sighed and closed the blinds.
So I have learned to live with the noise. I crank up the volume on NetFlix (lately I’ve been on a Breaking Bad binge), sink back on my cloud of pillows, and let sleep, one of life’s simplest yet greatest pleasures, overtake me.
Today, I’m thankful for a good night’s sleep.