Like all insomniacs, I blame my occasional bouts of sleeplessness on something. Tonight the culprit is the Outside Lands Festival.
Sitting up in bed at 3-something-a-frikkin’-m, I’ll imagine how stressful the traffic is going to be tomorrow when I try to cross town over the biggest Golden Gate Park festival of the year to get my daughter to a doctor’s appointment. An appointment that was made by my wife, whom I love dearly even up to her slight tendency to hypochondria. For a problem that I thought was probably nothing, and even the advice nurse agreed with me.
Except, maybe it’s not nothing, and here I am complaining about the minor inconvenience of a car trip when balanced against my daughter’s health.
So, of course, I’ll go and of course, now there’s that to worry about, too.
The clichés aren’t missing: there is a faucet dripping, nearby. The house is so quiet it rings in my ears, punctuated only by those discomfiting settling sounds.
Maybe the house is creaking to remind me how ineffectual I am both as “involved father” and “good housekeeper,” and god help me if I ever thought of trying to succeed at both.
And a thousand other little worries orbit my unsleeping body. Will I ever clean the garage? Do I really need to own a belt sander I’ve never used? Why didn’t I take steel wool to the sauté pan? Why can’t I sight-sing?
That’s the thing with insomnia: it’s rarely organized in its attack, it just surrounds you with minute needling thoughts. Flashes of awkward memories that you don’t know where to file. Seemingly unfixable disappointments.
And though being a dad is the most happymaking thing ever, the daily struggles still give me plenty of fodder for a good insomnia binge.
Bleh. See you in the morning.