9pm
After a long day of startling my eyes open with every fitful fall of my weary steps, I’m finally wide awake—just in time to fall asleep.
At least I was conscious for the soul-sucking 9–5 hours. I may not have worked on my novel after chowing down that microwavable Hungry-Man dinner, but who says self-improvement is a wash for today?
Maybe I rotted on the couch and stared, open-mouthed and dead-fish-eyed, at the 6:30 p.m. showing of World News Tonight with David Muir, but David Muir looks good for his age, and he probably sleeps eight hours a night. They say beauty is pain, so I’d better hit the hay.
9:30pm
What jubilation could I possibly get into after the sun sets, anyway? I may as well sleep it—along with the rest of my once-hope-filled dreams—away.
Did I want to go out tonight for a Taco Tuesday fishbowl margarita and a piping-hot gossip binge? Ew, yuck, that doesn’t sound fun at all. I’d much rather spend my night blissfully ignorant, out of the loop, and socially irrelevant.
Plus, if I did go to Taco Tuesday, I’d get hammered and end up making out with Dan from Tax. Again.
Then I’d feel obligated to go to the improv class he keeps inviting me to at 8 p.m. on Thursdays. If I went out at 8 p.m., I wouldn’t get home until at least ten, and after the 12-step skincare routine and deep-tissue mindfulness practice I plan to start tomorrow, I wouldn’t be in bed until well after midnight.
Also, Dan would be sure to coerce one of our improv drills into involving weeping and canoodling, and we already did that at the last Taco Tuesday.
That all sounds boring—even awful—right? I’m so much more content lying here in silence, staring at the ceiling, and tossing and turning under the weight of my existential worries until they’re crushed beyond recognition.
10pm
I’m still not asleep—or even drowsy—but it will all be worth it. That tater-tot-tanned TikTok influencer I stumbled upon after three hours of scrolling down a heinous, novel path in my algorithm was right. If I buy the nostril-liberating nose strips, snore-suffocating mouth tape, and magnesium-rich “sleepy girl mocktail” the influencer was sponsored by, I will wake up a bronzed, rich, grinning tater tot like her.
It’s a shame this Apple SmartMattress seems to be causing a crick in my neck. Maybe the SmartMattress app has a helpline. Let me grab my phone from the other side of the room and check.
While I’m on my phone, I may as well put on my AI-curated white- and brown-noise, sleep-maxxing soundscape playlist. Ah, that’s better. “American Pie” by Don McLean. I’ll be asleep in no time.
10:30pm
The helpline didn’t pick up. They put me on hold with an estimated eight-hour wait time.
11pm
Dan always brings blow to Taco Tuesday. Yawn—what a bore. I’d rather lay my body out in a horizontal line and snort some Z’s.
Jake, my husband, will appreciate my newfound restfulness. I’ll show him the “sleep divorce” was worth it. We may be sleeping in separate beds, but I can still see his downtrodden outline under the covers across the room.
Next time we see his parents and say, “Our marriage is great!” we may still be lying through gritted teeth, but at least we’ll be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
11:30pm
Jake doesn’t like Dan. The last time he accused me of cheating, I said, “You’re acting crazy. I think you need to get more sleep.”
Midnight
I can’t wait to tell everyone at the office how I got eight hours of sleep. They’re going to be so jealous—especially Dan. Maybe they’ll be so jealous they’ll send me home early again.
I wish I worked there. Everyone seems so nice.
1am
I’m still awake, but that’s okay. Maybe I’ll skip the 6 a.m. hot yoga class. I can’t self-improve too much too fast; it’ll shock my system.
That’s it—I’ll set a new alarm for 9 a.m.
3am
*muffled sobs into my new Tempur-Pedic pillow
4:30am
Wowwowowowow, okay, okay—if I get up a little after noon, that will be a full eight hours. I may as well set my alarm for 3 p.m., just in case.
Who cares if the early bird gets the worm?
Why don’t we ever talk about the late birds? They may not be able to pay their rent, but they’re artists, poets, comics, alcoholics—and they fit all that in without waking up at the crack.
4:45am
Writer and cultural critic Fran Lebowitz frequently sleeps in until the afternoon, and she wrote, “Sleep is death without the responsibility.”
I pray for sweet, sweet death in the afternoon.
5am
There’s also the saying, “You can sleep when you’re dead.” So I may as well get up and go see Dan. He’s probably still at Taco Tuesday.
5:15am
Or maybe I won’t. I’ll sleep on it.
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