Twitching the Night Away

It is 4am and I have been up for over an hour.  The dreaded tickle, as Dearly Beloved calls it.  Hey, sounds better than postnasal sinus drip.    Water, cough drops. . . no contest against the persistent itch in my throat.  Getting up, having a cup of something hot is what helps, but  then I am too awake to go back to sleep, too sleepy to accomplish anything.  That’s my state of being at the moment.  Oh yeah. . . slap 180 calories down in the old notebook.  I polished off a crunchy granola bar in my semi-conscious state.

Yesterday I slept until 4 and would have slept longer had DB not started the dreaded twitch, a series of leg jerks and kicks  which don’t wake him, but scare the heck out of me.  The bed feels like an earthquake tremor.   I don’t know whether his twitch or my tickle has reset my  circadium rhythm, but here I am, waiting for the news channels to update their news cycles.  Sometimes it is DB who can’t sleep, but this week, the night sentry job  belongs to me.   This AARP stage is not for the frail or faint of heart.

Nor is it logical.  Some things just seem like piling on and make no sense, Mother Nature.  Why is it that women’s eyebrows get thinner?  Andy Rooney has more eyebrows than most women have pubic hair,  so we’re sitting in beauty shops with hair dye on the peach fuzz  above our eyes in an attempt to preserve some semblance of arched brows.   And why do older men grow ear hair?  Do their follicles invert somehow and push hair out the ears, noses,  and brows instead of the top of the head?   That’s downright gross.  Praytell,  what in the evolutionary process makes a woman’s body think she needs to grow facial hair at a time that her eyesight makes it hard to see the offending wires sprouting from her chiney chin chin?  I see women with long ones waving in the breeze like prairie grasses.  Are they simply eyebrows which have lost their way?  This is heady stuff to ponder in the pre-dawn hours.  

Weird stuff!  My fingers and toes are beginning to twist.  I showed mine to one of the doctors in my ongoing search for Dr. Feelgood and he held up his own hands to show he was a member of that club, too.   My mother’s thumbs twisted grotesquely, so I look at mine every day, hoping that the “watched pot never boils” axiom will hold true.  Still have opposable thumbs today- check! 

I listen to my children for any hint of the patronizing tone one uses with an aging parent and pretend I don’t hear it now and then.   Don’t even go there, Kiddos.   My marbles are still in the bag, thank you.   I check every morning, right after the thumbs.  Yes,  I laundered two Burt’s Bees lip balms yesterday, along with the permanent press stuff.  At least I caught them before they went in the dryer.  That’s encouraging.  Perhaps you were too young to remember the time that the Crayola Hot Magenta went into the dryer along with our underwear and dyed everything hot pink.    (Sorry about that, Son!)     

So. . . what shall I do today?   Maybe I’ll paint the coffee table.  It doesn’t go with the rest of the furniture–its country styling  looks silly in the contemporary living room, but I can’t get rid of a table that still has the teeth marks of our youngest embedded in the top.   If some slob puts his or her feet on it, I want it to be me!

Or I could dig out and toss the boxes of pictures I have that belonged to my mother, grandmother,  and other relatives.  I don’t have the faintest idea who half the people are in those old black and whites.  My mother had the last laugh–she kept collecting stuff and stashing it, warning it would be our problem.   My brother got the popsicle sticks, the old canning cars, lunch boxes, and cabinets full of bargain shampoo and toiletries.  (Mother did like a good sale!)  It’s a good thing, or I’d probably still be saving those, too.  Sentimentality or insanity?  Darned if I know. 

I have my own stash to dispose of. . . decades of clipped recipes for dishes I’ve never fixed, never intended to fix.  I wanted to be a walking encyclopedia of cooking.  Julia Child, meet Honeychile.     You never know when your kid might have international day at Girl Scouts and need to bring a Tasmanian stew.  I’m going to have faith that “the googles” on “the internets” can handle it.  Last call for my fried cheese curd recipe from Wisconsin. . . the fried dill pickles from Mississippi.. . .   Actually, I DID mean to fix a few of these, now that I have them in front of me.  Perhaps I’ll wait to go through these another day.  

For now, it’s nap time.   My eyebrows need  beauty rest.  









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