I fear that I am a latent narcoleptic. By the end of the work day, I can barely keep my eyes open. I've never actually nodded off at a crucial moment. But I feel like I could.
My drowsiness is not as bad as Sigourney Weaver in HeartBreakers, the DVD deleted scenes, where she's at a luncheon with Gene Hackman the cigarette baron and his cronies, and finds them so mindnumbingly boring that she stabs a salad fork into her own thigh to stay awake. But it's close.
Do you suppose my dearth of zzzzzzz's has anything to do with those five hours of sleep I get almost every night, whether I need them or not? I'm sure there's a reasonable diagnosis kicking around out there in Internetland. My doctor proposed sleep apnea. I'm not so sure. I don't wake up gasping. I sleep quite soundly during the hours that I sleep. I have no trouble falling asleep. It's just that darn alarm that keeps interrupting my slumber.
By the time I pilot my large SUV home every evening, I need a little fifteen-minute nap. It's quite refreshing. Then I'm ready to go for another six hours. The afternoon hours are the problem. I run out of steam. My get-up-and-go gets up and goes. I need the energy of Sally Field as Abby's mom, Maggie Wyczenski. If you don't know who I'm talking about, turn in your ER superfan card right now! Granted, I don't need to be sashaying around the workplace, handing out bagels and cream cheese that Dr. Susan Lewis, the woman with one single solitary facial expression, thought she threw away. Nor do I need to run off to Oklahoma with a trucker and find myself abandoned five days later in a cheap motel with no money to pay, necessitating a call to my daughter, the nurse/doctor, who is busy juggling two doctor boyfriends and is in no mood to bail me out of my cesspool of depression. Again.
I really need more hours in a day. Or a maid. Or a cook. Or one less blog to pick up after.