Roasting on a SleepNumber Bed

We went on a road trip this weekend, my daughter and I. She had to make a fast trip to Baltimore to meet with a young representative of an overseas program she wants to do next year.

"I'm in!" I announced. "Road trip."

"Really? I didn't want to ask..."

"Absolutely." I realized I'd assumed she'd welcome the company, then made sure she really was willing to have me tag along. She was.

I woke Saturday morning to her calling outside the window; she'd woken at five, drove the two hours to our house and arrived before I was up.

"I'm so sorry! I thought you'd be up!"

I had no idea how bleary I am when I'm woken from a sound sleep. It hasn't happened in a long time. It took three cups of coffee to make the cylinders click into place, but they did and I was ready.

The drive down was easy, though it took about five hours. We got there early and checked into our hotel.

"They've got sleep number beds," I told her. "This should be interesting."

We had to share a king sized bed. All the rooms with two beds were booked. It wasn't a problem; the bed was so big it was impossible to tell there was anyone else on the other side.

We explored the harbor, had our first Hard Rock Cafe experience (it's LOUD), wandered by the water and admired the dragon boats.



They were all lined up, hibernating in the cool of the early evening.

It was early. We tried to go see a movie but couldn't find a theatre that was playing anything we wanted to see. We went back to the hotel, wandered the empty plaza and looked in the closed windows of the shops. The lingerie shop had mannequins who either looked embarrassed, or like they were trying to escape.
One stood by the door, bending forward slightly, hands against the window.

"Weird," I observed.

Back in our room, we played with the bed.

The most popular sleepnumber, the brochure told us, is 35.

35 is a little hard. So I pressed the controller and the air quietly let out of my side of the bed. 25 wasn't bad.

Here's the hilarious thing about sleep number beds. They make a really funny noise when you want to make them firmer. It's kind of like a weed whacker. Not horribly loud, but just not a noise you associate with the bedroom. My daughter hit the button to make her side firmer and I collapsed with laughter. Whirrrrrrrrrrrr

She had adjusted hers to 35, figuring all those other sleep number experts can't be wrong. Then she went to brush her teeth. I hit the button for her side and jacked it up to 80.

Yes, I'm a child.

I stifled a giggle as she hopped onto the bed and said, "Man, what happened?"

She figured it out.

She finally drifted off to sleep, hopefully with her side of the bed adjusted to the perfect sleep number. And I laid there. And it got hotter.

We'd tried to turn down the heat with no success. So I tried just the fan. Then the air conditioner. And it got hotter.

The clock ticked and I laid there, my legs aching from a recent bad experience with some heavy snow and a shovel. I took a painkiller I'd brought with me. Bad move. It was Excedrin. That's for headaches. It has caffeine. I was in for a long night.

At about a three ayem I finally surrendered. There was no point worrying about sleeping. It wasn't going to happen. So I spent the hot, quiet hours visualizing all the happy outcomes to various situations in my life that I'd like to experience.
I moved from bed to chair, back to bed, back to chair. Fiddled with the heat. Opened the window. Visualized some more.

Finally, somewhere around 5:30 I fell asleep. And when my daughter woke me at 7:30, it was 90 degrees in our room.

But my sleep number was stellar.

My Inner Warzone - Drugs Vs. Lyme

I mentioned I've had an alien invasion going on in my body for the past six months. Lyme disease snuck in without me noticing (apparently it learns - I spotted it quickly the first time and squashed it flat). In six months, I'm sure it's managed to go anywhere it wants to, and I know that heart and brain are two of its favorite vacation resorts.

The battle has begun: I'm on a heavy duty antibiotics as well as a horse-sized weekly dose of vitamin D. And believe it or not, I feel worse than I have in six months. I'm assuming that means the soldiers I've just deployed against the Lyme hoardes have found the enemy and they're on the attack. I picture them, the tough looking Antibiotic Brigade, armed to the teeth and wiping out everything in their path (including all the natural flora that I'm going to have to replenish), clashing with the evil, parasitic Lyme spirochetes. The Lyme troops use me for their fuel, tapping into whatever I've got to recharge them when they get tired. Thus the need for a massive strike by the Antibiotic Brigade: their only hope it to consistently overwhelm the Lyme Hoardes. I expect I pay the price either way.

I sat through a full day of jury duty yesterday and during a short break, caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My eyes were so glassy I'm surprised no one gave me a field sobriety test. I got home and moved from couch to chair and back to couch. KB, wonderful man that he is, waited on me hand and foot. I fell into bed, convinced I'd crash within moments. But that's the cruel part.

I laid there for better than an hour, wide awake. I closed my eyes, figuring at least I'd give them a break. But sleep eluded me as it has for the past several days. Why is that?

It happens to all of us. We're exhausted. We're drained. We're dead on our feet. We fall into bed and something says, "Nah. Stay awake a while longer." Try as we might, it takes hours sometimes to finally fall asleep.

I've read the books. Consciously relax your body. Let your mind drift. Focus your mind on something banal. Drink warm milk, herb tea. Get warmer. Get colder. Phooey.

But I finally slept, I feel slightly better (could that be because I can work from home today?) and it's the weekend. Hope springs eternal.