Confessions of an Incurable Insomniac


I no longer wonder why it’s so difficult to fall asleep.  The fear of suffering through a grotesque nightmare is the reason, you see.  For example, just the other night, I dreamt (yes, that’s still an acceptable past tense for the verb to dream) that I leapt over the moon with a cow.  No, just kidding there.  I  dreamt that a handsome man with a striking resemblance to a close friend suddenly appeared center stage reciting lines to Death of a Salesman. That was cool, for about a nanosecond.  In this lucid nightmare I was stage left and listening, standing there stupefied.  Then the absurdity stepped up a gargantuan notch.

El hombre muy guapo turned to me with outstretched hand and, with a glistening smile and piercing eyes, shouted “C’mon!”   I was mortified.  Bad enough I have stage fright — after decades of a recurring nightmare of performing as “Madame Jourdain” in Moliere’s The Would-Be Gentleman way back in jr. high.  (Oui, I dream postmodern-style:  a nightmare within a nightmare within the-nightmare-that-is-my-life.)  And so, imagine my terror and my darting REM-phase eyes when I dashed across the stage and began belting out an unbeknownst pre-dream song.  Please don’t ask me to recall the title.  I don’t want to go back there again. That would be akin to requesting that Ruby-Slippered Dorothy hit the rewind button on the remote.  “Home like place no there’s”?  Yeah, that’d be freaky.

Then, in my nightmare, another man — but not a handsome guy — joined us onstage, and we became a threesome.  Though not the kind me-likes.  We all began dancing about, trotting and waltzing alternately as the unnameable tune changed into a ditty that was melodically similar to “Rich Man” from Fiddler on the Roof —  but at 78 r.p.m.   Neither Alvin and the Chipmunks nor Gwen Stefani had anything on us.  In real life, I can’t sing for beans, nor to save my life, so this performance in my nightscape was torture!

And then I awakened to find a daymare:  the pockmarked scowl of Gordon Ramsay as he bleeped his way through some swanky kitchen in Spain’s Costa del Sol.  I usually don’t perspire so heavily while viewing “Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares,”  but that morning I swore I could feel the scatalogical chef’s spittle doing a Paso Doble on my clammy forehead.  Shit, I realized, it’s five o’clock in the evening!

Needless to say, I never learn my lesson.  It’s nearly half past seven in the a.m. now, and I haven’t been to bed.  Well, I suppose if there was someone in it besides my Mannyquin (just kidding again), I’d want to slide between the sheets.  Ugh!  As I type the last words to this, my first blog entry, some blasted wrinkle cream infomercial beckons my middle-aged ass closer to death.  Hey, posterior puckers get wrinkled, too.

Thank you for hearing my confession.  OK, it’s time for you to say: ‘T’sssudiiite.  (If you don’t get that joke, you’re way too young to be reading this post.)


Copyright © 2010 By Chantale Reve


2 Responses to “Confessions of an Incurable Insomniac”

  1. chantalereve Says:

    @Dean: Thank you! And you absolutely have my permission to blog about my “Blah-Blah-Blah-Blah Blog,” provided you give attribution and the link as you mentioned in your comment above.

  2. Good post, I really enjoyed this post. I have just started up a site and am in the middle of creating rather diverse content. Do you object if I blog about this article? Obviously I will provide you and this site due acknowledgment and place a link to this page :).

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s