January 16, 2006

# 26

I have a tendency to sleep like a mass murderer on death row awaiting a phone call from Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger to pardon my actions. The vision concludes with Big Arnie's handshake officially releasing me back into dysfunctional society, whereby I'm deputised as Sheriff Kaufman so I can slap the cuffs of justice on the wrists and insert the truncheon of truth to predetermined parts of those who put me there.

For the first four months of living overseas, I could count on one hand the total number of solid nights' sleep I had. I'm not kidding. Settling into the lifestyle here was a challenge: transitioning into a job where my every move was under scrutiny of dedicated company employees to the bitter end, irregular working hours, the climate change (i.e. there was one), constant concern for my wife's well-being back home as she organised removal of our meagre belongings to another state while herself living out of a suitcase until we were united here; it wasn't what constitutes a pleasant time by any means.

I am the Night Rider!

Something similarly disconcerting in the grey matter happened last night, although I cannot explain nor propose to understand why, leaving me 99% sure that I suffer from a form of insomnia.

Help me.

For reasons beyond my comprehension, it seems to be a Sunday night special. Sunday and I have no jurisdiction to sing in tune where the blissful elimination of counter productive thought is concerned. Not even while lavishly warm quilts (yes, plural my friends) of down donated to me by long departed birds of a feather cover my shivering body does train of thought turn to sleep. Instead, it's thought after thought after inexplicably daft thought bouncing from side to side like a game of Pong with no foreseeable end.

I am the Night Rider!

Meanwhile, I've attained the ability to predict within a millisecond my wife's trademark noises to signify her successful departure from the conscious realm and arrival in the land of nod.

How may I use this gift, oh Lord, to better serve my fellow man?

Being the consummate professional that I am, I've made every effort to fight the condition man-to-entity which has plagued every moment of my waking existence. There's only one minor problem: the Sunday night insomnia keeps winning.

A list of self-diagnosed treatments I've tried to rid myself of Sunday night insomnia:

Booze
Reading
Intimacy
More booze
More intimacy
Thinking like Buddha
Heroic doses of booze
Thinking like a goldfish
Subjecting myself to physical pain
Stuffing my face full of carbohydrates
Subjecting myself to known relaxants
Half-star quality entertainment on cable

None of these things seem to do the trick: none of them. Count 'em, damn it!

I am the Night Rider!

I have to face facts. It's my first (official) day back at work. I'm red-eyed to the extreme though not through intoxicants traceable in my blood stream. I'm irritable. I'm irritating. I'm a total nuisance and distraction unto others as I would have others want to be unto me, yet everyone else seems far more capable of dealing with this bozo at work - and dealing with work - than I do and I don't know what I can do.

The best way to beat Pong when Pong's beating you is to unplug the fucking thing. Am I right?

Help me.

2 comments:

Mrs DC said...

Study the fucking language is all I have to say on the matter - nothing makes me more tired.

The other option is boarding / driving all day Sunday.

I must own up to having a similar relationship with Sunday. I managed to drag myself out of bed at about 8.20 to make it into work for nine. No shave, which leaves me with a two-tiered beard, a length #2 chinstrap goatee thing with a length #1 background noise. Nobody has said anything because they wouldn't dare.

Kaufman said...

The boarding/driving option works on a multitude of levels for me, unlike the first option.

Actually, Mrs Kaufman and I went for a walk through our local hills on Sunday, conjuring the misconceived sensation of having invited exhaustion to our midst.

Alas, it wasn't her.

I reckon if we had begun our trompe through le monde (??) at around 6 pm instead of 12 pm, not only would I have been wearing a head torch but I would have been shagged according to two definitions. I would also have been adequately equipped for sleep as I dealt with marauding boar with the best human offal impersonation you ever did see.

What?