As usual, after dropping my SigOth (significant other) off at work at 3.30am, I find myself unable to switch off the mental light and go back to snoozeville until the screechy alarm thing makes its evil noise. So, I thought, why not jump on the old interwebs and see what’s cooking?
There’s lots cooking. More than I need. Its all just adding to the noise in my head that says move!do!make!worry! Some of it, I will admit, has been interesting, and I’ve bookmarked it for a more sane hour’s reflective reading. There is, however, very little point in reading anything right now that I might actually be interested in because I will just be cross at it for a little while as it has been so interesting as to keep me awake; and then I will promptly forget all about it once I finally do pass out again, mere minutes before the screechy alarm thing.
Insomnia is a family trait on my mother’s side. I remember making jam with my maternal grandmother at 2am on a hot summer’s night and thinking how wonderful it was that we had that secret time together. I found out later that she had also done the same thing with my mother and her sisters, and her mother had done it with her. There is a history of wee hours jam-making which will probably end with me as I have no progeny to pass the genetic tendency onto, and I don’t think my eternally sleepy step-daughter is really up for it. Perhaps if she has children I can convince one of them that the best thing to do when you cannot sleep on a hot night is to get up and make yourself even hotter by standing over a boiling pot of fruit and sugar for an hour, and then run blissfully around under a very cold shower before diving back into bed with the fan on full-blast. Yes, what a grand adventurer I will be as a nanna!
The tendency for midnight meanderings comes from my father’s side also. On this side, however, there is less jam-making and a lot more wandering around with guns. Farming and such, you know, because of foxes and feral cats. Or in the case of a great-great grandfather, being a bootlegging criminal with a tendency for gangsterism. Some nights I am visited by these tendencies, and I merely lurk in the dark, watching for signs of beasties that I need to protect myself from or the huntress in me seeking the flash of a white tail to chase after. Other nights I drink far too much whisky to numb the darkness of bloodlust and fall asleep on the couch in an irresponsible display of failed parenting.
Romanticise as I might, the bottom line is that as a mid-forties woman in suburban Melbourne my options for reasonable insomnial shenanigans are mostly limited to reading crime fiction or trawling the web for things to shout at in my mind. As it is summer, I may take that cool shower before flinging myself back into bed and letting the fan blast me into a hypothermic rest of sorts. But I do miss the jam. And the shooting.*
*Please note: I am not usually a violent person, and I do not take animals’ lives in vain. Besides, I am a terrible shot and much more likely to injure myself than any other living creature. Oh, and I do not have access to a gun, which is very fortunate for all involved.