Where have I been? Well, there's the matter of this silly, silly job. It's a doggone shame that blogging about work is something that Is Not Done, because my workplace is quite a dysfunctional little tool shed. But the pathetic and eminently blogworthy details will have to wait. For now.
The real issue is this bout of sleeping sickness, which came about after a lapse in judgment. Normally, I am very possessive of my Me Time, even if it means staying up until the wee hours and staggering off to work on only a few hours' sleep (and the very real possibility of losing every pair of underpants I own.) But on Tuesday night, after Robert and I read the very dirty-sounding "There's a Wocket in My Pocket," he invited me to crash out with him in his car bed. Even though this meant wedging my 6-foot-2 body into a 4-foot-2 plastic box, I took him up on it. And despite waking up three hours later with a throbbing pain in my shins, I managed to crawl into my own bed and pass out right away.
I slept for 10 hours that night. And my body liked it. It liked it so much, it has staged a revolt, causing my pineal gland to put down the want-ads and unleash a flood of melatonin into my system. Now, I'm useless after 10pm. I feel the drowsiness coming on, and I'm powerless to stop it. I haven't seen "The Daily Show" for three days, and I'm re-reading A Confederacy of Dunces three paragraphs at a time. It's completely annoying.
The upside is, it's apparently transferable. The next night, Robert lay on the couch next to me while we watched The Simpsons, and he fell asleep on my chest at 7:15. After I carted him off to bed, my wife took his place in my armpit and also promptly zonked out. It's not a bad feeling, really. If this is to be my superpower, I could do a lot worse. I can definitely use it to score a lot more Me Time.
