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