If I was practicing good sleep hygiene at three A.M. I would get out of bed and go to another room instead of flipping from side to side to back to belly because according to Good Sleep Hygiene we don’t want to associate the bed with torture.
But I live in a cottage which was once a playhouse. I don’t have many rooms to which I can flee.
I could sit on the toilet lid.
I could perch on a shoe box in my closet/hallway.
I could squirm on my meditation bench.
I could stretch out in the backseat of my car in the garage.
Or I could go outside. Ruminate about the pool that nobody ever swims in because the webbed cover is too complicated to uncover. Only the Pool Man knows how to take it off, but he’s a stealthy bugger. It’s a mystery as to when he’s going to arrive. When the sides of the pool turn green I begin to suspect he hasn’t been around. When I step outside and nearly pass out from the chemical fumes, I suspect he has. On the rare occasion when I catch him emptying the filter basket full of acorns we chat about the air pressure in my right front tire and it’s clear to me that a man wearing a vintage Hawaiian shirt isn’t going to raise a sweat wrestling with all those strings to get the cover off. These are the things I ponder at three A.M.
Against all logic I believe I’m the only creature awake in the western hemisphere at this hour. Other than the owl. We commune regularly.
I wonder if he thinks I’m his mate.