You Could Even Say I'm on a Tear

Last night, following Sunday's all-night-long staring-at-the-ceiling-a-thon and extra long work day, I slept for 11 hours straight. ELEVEN. I only woke up once, to text M good night, and then I passed out again like a normal person would. I didn't even take medication! And this morning, it was raining and my dumb ass decided to wear four inch heels to work. (For many stylish and strong-calfed New Yorkers, that wouldn't be a big deal, but this was only my third time wearing heels to work in two years. I love them, but being 6'1" with heels on makes me feel huge.) See, I woke up this morning and I was feeling spicy!

Here is a picture of me sweating.

So, elevated and damp, I'm standing on the subway platform, and I'm sweating a little because the air is like a Snuggie the color of humid (you know, soft purplish grey). I'm perfectly matte, even chalky, in dry 90 degree heat, but throw a little humidity in the mix and I immediately resemble an old man after a slow-pitch softball game. It's great for dates. I always, always break a sweat on the way to work, ruining everything. This usually bothers me, but today I'm fine. I'm waiting for the F among the usual MTA clientele: triple-stroller mamas, shifty-eyed overweight teenagers, thugs in UPS uniforms, etc., and I realize that I am actually enjoying myself. I sort of like this umbrella I'm holding, I'm looking forward to seeing my work pals, and I don't even care that a loud-mouthed pack of school-skipping bros just cut in front of me. What. Why! And then it hits me: this is how I might feel almost every day if I slept regularly. What a freaking difference.

My whole day was the good kind, where you know what to say in every situation without consulting the archives. Let me explain: you know how in the summer, most TV channels just play reruns? Well, on a day following a sleepless night, I find that in order to carry on normal conversations with coworkers, I have to dip into my archive of previous discussions and reuse old lines that seem like they might fit into the current one. Sometimes, this doesn't work at all, and I get the old smile-nod-and-walk-away. But usually, I can eek by on super tired days playing my reruns while my actual self hunkers down in the fetal position inside my body and waits for it to be over.

Today, though. Man, today felt really good. I was super on, like I like to be.

On Saturday I cooked a huge Thanksgiving dinner for six friends (including little sister in town from afar) and it was awesome until I got too substance-abused to correctly cook my pies, and we ate super underdone pumpkin and crunchy as hell apple! Maybe I will post about that next time.

Nightglow

Oh, today is a raw day. Not the November air outside, I mean; that's unseasonably, eerily soft and round, not the sort I was expecting that pokes you in the ribs through your jacket with its jagged, unfriendly edges. The rawness is in me. Though I've only spoken to a barista and a bookstore clerk so far today, murmured an excuse me to a woman and her latte as I bowed my head to pass, I suspect I may crack wide open when asked a question by a coworker who knows me. Or maybe I'll be fine. I honestly can't know until I open my mouth. Right now, a lack of sleep is casting a warm glow over Cobble Hill, even the looming L-shaped brick buildings that make up the Gowanus Houses, and I feel like crying just knowing that it's all here, and so am I, which means that these are, in some small way, my golden trees, my brownstones, my scaffolding. I like the days my insomnia makes me sentimental instead of straight up pissed. I know the halo around everything could be sleep deprivation induced hallucinations, but I don't care because it's pretty. For once, I don't mind wandering; I'm trying to decide how I'll gather my bearings and stuff them back inside my chest before I get to work. I have a little time to kill, so I stop at BookCourt and browse the new non-fiction until a particular book catches my attention. It's about insomnia; the jacket is covered with nearly invisible Z's that I know will glow in the dark tonight when it sits on my bedside table. Har-har, pretty hilarious. I buy it.

I took a half day today. It was planned and all, actually suggested by a coworker because she thought I'd need it, and I did. Without the pressure of an early alarm, I don't know why I couldn't sleep. Every Sunday night it's the same damn thing, my body fighting, my brain stuck in a loop, repeating the dumbest scraps of the day. The name of a woman I spoke to at work on Friday, but whom I've never met in person: Susan Westre. ("Soooo-zin Wehhh-struh." Why?) Lyrics to Christmas songs. A funny thing my friend said on Saturday. Fa-la-la-la-la. None of it matters. These tidbits, when arranged together, solve no mystery, unlock no secret code, because my life isn't mysterious. I don't have crippling money issues, my relationships are stable, my lovely boyfriend's breath goes in-out-in-out softly next to me, comforting and familiar. Strange how the brain is so complex that one part of it can wage war against the other, and still another part altogether is able to conceal the real reason. I once spent an entire night trying to remember the name of the band who sang that song "I Could Never Be Your Woman", thought I honestly and completely don't even care. (I had the answer right anyway: it's White Town, but those two words strung together had begun to sound so ridiculous with repetition that they'd completely lost their meaning.) Last night, as with every other unsuccessful night, I watched the inky purple shadow of the Brooklyn night (that's the darkest it ever gets) turn to grey around the edges of my blackout curtains, and then I put on my sleep mask. I've named it Skeeter, because personification has a tendency to make me less bitter. The hours between 12 and 8 become edgeless and gummy, sticking to each other and stretching like taffy, and in the morning it's like they never happened. Gummy eyes popping open before the alarm, I can't quite believe that I've just spent eight hours fighting with myself.