It appears that I’ve given up sleeping.
And I used to be such a fan.
I take a prescription sleep-aid, of course. What middle-aged American female doesn’t? And so I fall asleep.
But I don’t stay there.
Whatever the reason, I am awake. I am awake and agitated.
For hours.
I roll. I kick. I sigh heavily.
Nothing helps.
And so I begin another day by staring at myself in the bathroom mirror.
“Who,” I mouth at my reflection, “are you supposed to be?”
I stumble through the work week trying to appear alert. I focus, during meetings, on keeping my eyes open only to suddenly recall a brief fad in junior high of painting eyes on our eyelids.
My snorts of laughter are met with the concerned frowns of my fellow workers.
I shrug.
Sleepless Pearl cares not.
And it’s odd, but 2:51 seems to be my new preferred wake-up time.
A more superstitious, gothic-ly minded woman would affix a reason to this.
Perhaps something wonderful once happened at 2:51 and the house has never forgotten.
Perhaps something wonderful once happened to me at 2:51 and I remember only when I’m unconscious.
Perhaps I was murdered in another life at 2:51.
Oh, no! What if I was murdered in another life at 2:51? What if I will die at 2:51?
Worse yet, what if my bed-side clock is off by 10 minutes and I’m actually being prompted somehow about a two-for-one sale that I’m missing out on?
It’s easy to confuse me when I’m tired.