Feeling Sorry for Myself Because of Sleeplessness & My Body Fails Me

I don’t know why my daughter sees fit to burst into our bedroom at 12 midnight to rouse us from a sound sleep to announce this tragedy in her life or that. Unless the house is on fire, I don’t need to know anything about anybody until the next day.

After her big news (her kitten peed on her bed), I was the only one in the house who couldn’t get back to sleep, so I spent most of the early morning hours watching crime shows on the Discovery Channel. Usually, it’s some husband who has murdered his wife and thinks he’s gotten away with it until foiled by forensics, but according to my spouse, it’s the other way around in real life. His new favorite crime show is “Snapped” on the Oxygen Network. They feature only women who “snapped” and murdered their husbands on that show, so he is getting a perverted sense of evildoing.

After fitfully tossing about for a couple of hours (he is perennially hot and I am continuously freezing my ass off), I finally drifted off around 4 a.m. At five, my husband leaps out of bed totally refreshed and starts sawing lumber in the basement. He is painting the dungeon downstairs a mixture of purple, green and brick and redoing all of the wood trim while he’s at it. Meanwhile, I am moaning and half dead from the night before.

Around nine, I decide to get up. I have things to do, like finish the decorating the Christmas tree, go shopping for provisions, make my son some tasty treats, like brownies and cookies, and make osso bucco for dinner. (I must say, my osso bucco rocks! as does my brownies and chocolate chip cookies.)

Since my husband was still downstairs sawing, I had to maneuver around his mess with my bins of Christmas decorations. Once I started working, I began to get into a  Christmas spirit, albeit a tired, sleep deprived one. I always forget about the ornaments I had purchased in the days after the last Christmas, at a discount, of course, so it’s almost like opening presents before the big day.

Alas, I bent over to reach for some crystal stars, and my lower back went out.

The one thing about getting older is that it sucks that your body can no longer keep up with the rest of you. Now that you have money, smarts and experience, your physical being starts its slow decent to the grave. The last time my back went out, I was pretty much toast for a week. It could have been the fact that any slight movement would cause enormous pain, or it could have been the borrowed Vicodin. No matter.

I don’t know who to blame this on. Myself for not being very fit and therefore subject to a bad back? My kitten for peeing in the bed? My child for waking me up? My husband for continuing to sleep like a rock? The Discovery Channel for thinking up programming that captures my attention? The Christmas tree? The sawing downstairs?

I think I’ll see about finding the leftover Vicodin…