I Could Just Take Some Ambien

It's not that I don't miss him when he's gone - because I do! I do! - but when The Boy travels (the first half of most weeks) I can't help but get into my own little routine. This includes leaving a trail of dishes and glasses at various stations around the apartment, eating Nutella out of the jar, sitting in the middle of the couch, and watching Matlock on the living room television from my bed.

The first night The Boy's back is the most difficult one in my adjustment period. I don't remember how to share the couch, I get confused by someone else in my kitchen, and I feel especially territorial about the bed. I have to choose a side? I have to sleep vertically?

I'll fully admit that I am a terrible sleeper. It's a lifelong disorder I can't seem to kick. I'm not sure who's to blame here, but when in doubt I blame my parents. It takes me a long time to fall asleep and when I finally do I have nothing but nightmares on topics ranging from glow-in-the-dark robbers to Bill Cosby and his quest to murder me. Starting around 2, I wake up multiple (MULTIPLE) times during the night. I've recently cut down on my habit of eating small meals during my jaunts (hunks of cheese, beef jerky, Thin Mints), but that only means that the trips themselves are shorter, not the frequency that I take them.

Thursday I was having a particularly rough sleep night. I tossed, I turned, I kicked the sheets off my feet (nothing is more detrimental to a good night's sleep than sweaty feet), I got up, I got down, I sighed, I moaned. The Boy silently suffered through all of it, until my final move. Around 4 am I pulled a dramatic back-to-stomach flip, pulling the comforter off of him and onto me. Out of the blue, in a crystal clear, sleep-free voice he says: "STOP MOVING BEFORE I BLOW DART YOU."

I have no idea what he was dreaming about to stay something so... tribal, but you can bet I hightailed it out of there and onto the couch to flip and moan in a tranquilizer-free zone. Yow.