Friday night, I spent a cozy overnighter at the doctor’s office.
For years, I’ve had, what you might call, a fatigue problem. And that would be understating it. For example, I do not make our bed or put on make-up and supportive undergarments in an effort to be ready at all times to leap back in under the covers.
This exhaustion is getting exhausting. I’m thinking about getting dressed again.
Before you think you have the answer, consider these factors:
1. I am not depressed. (You’ve read my blog. You be the judge.)
2. I do not have an autoimmune disorder, a thyroid problem, or a desire to be on American Idol (this is relevant because, in my opinion, unrequited dreams tire America. We should all just give up already).
3. I have had several extraneous parts removed: one tumor, one appendix, one eight pound baby, and a sliver of both eyeballs.
I arrived at the doctor’s office at 8:30PM. A massive man named Steve introduced himself as my “sleep tech”. He then applied gooey globs and wires to my eyelids, jaw, shins . . . I’ll spare you all the anatomical details. My entire arm was restrained by a tiny oxygen indicator on my finger.
He said, “Don’t worry, I will be watching you all night long through that camera.”
I should have slept like a baby, jerking around in my pajamas, shackled by hundreds of wires with a 300 pound stranger watching me. Suffice it to say, I did not.
I do not have the results yet. But after this accurate scientific study, I’m sure that I’ll soon be diagnosed with Restless Gummy Wire Tethered Stranger Anxiety Stage Fright Induced Insomnia. The cure will include a few months of sleeping in my own bed, with my husband bestowing electric shocks while I struggle to free myself from a straight jacket. The treatment promises to bring me enough energy to make the bed, make-up my face, and stand in line for hours on American Idol!