I’ve written a whole month’s worth of blog posts about bedrooms. That should give you some indication of how much I love my bed.
(For more indication, read this post about one of my favorite Elizabethan songs called An Evening Hymn.)
There’s been a huge war waging inside of me for the past month. The past seven months, come to think of it. A war between the crazy, addicted workaholic who drives my tender body like a punishing overseer, and the gentle, warm, moist feminine soul who lives to experience joy, and to create. The workaholic overseer sets out plans and schedules and timetables and programs. The creative feminine soul, pummeled from long nights chained to the computer, curls up into a little ball and whimpers inconsolably.
In my dreaming life, these two characters put on a host of masks, but their unhealthy dance is always unmistakable. Last night I dreamt I was having forced sex with Philip Seymour Hoffman's character from Along Came Polly. He was bloated and debauched and disgusting, and when I woke up I immediately recognized him as my workaholic self.
I’ve been physically exhausted lately, so when I got home from work tonight (I’m writing this on Tuesday), I lay down for a wee nap. I set my alarm for an hour, but 26 minutes after my alarm went off I still hadn’t gotten out of bed. I was lying there, half-dreaming, running through a list of reasons why I shouldn’t get up. Reasons like: My body needs rest. I’ve been spending too much time on my computer lately. I need a break from thinking up blog posts every night. I want sleep.
Needless to say, I eventually got up.
(The cats – my constant sleeping companions – were nonplussed. They have no objection to lazing around 20 hours out of every 24.)
You know those signs that shop owners put on their doors in corny old movies? “Gone fishing”? I need one of those for my life. Only mine would say, “Gone sleeping.”
I’m going back to bed, very soon. Hopefully to better dreams…
Is there somewhere you yearn to go? What sign would you hang on your shop door?