Confessions of an insomniac

It's the same thing every day. I put every effort into getting ready for that moment. I make it to 9 o'clock -- I know I'm getting there. Ten o'clock rolls around and by then I've reached the point where I know -- absolutely positively, without an inkling of a doubt -- I'm ready to go to bed.

How do I know? Because my husband has been talking to me for the last 15 minutes and I haven't heard a word he says; my dogs are barking at the door and my head is lolling from side-to-side; and I have completely tuned out the television blaring in the background.

I finally muster the energy to get up and prepare for my evening routine.

I get the dogs gathered together, get them where they belong, wish my husband a good night and make my way to the bedroom.

It doesn't take but a few seconds to find the most comfortable spot on the bed, cuddle into my blankets, close my eyes, and then, within minutes -- I'm wide awake.

"Okay," I tell myself, "you have seven hours and 45 minutes before you have to get up and get ready for work. Try counting."

So I do.

One, two, three ... 54, 55, 56.

Then suddenly a thought pops into my head. "You forgot to pick up the toilet paper." (Or some such nonsense.)

"That's okay," I reason. "Brad can pick it up in the morning."

One, two, three...86, 87, 88.

If I send Brad to the store he'll probably end up coming back with that brand new 30.06 Winchester Rifle with infrared night scope and laser sight.

"That's okay," I tell myself. "Brad works hard, he deserves a new gun."

It's 11 p.m.

That settled, I get back down to counting.

One, two, three...143, 144, 145.

But if he gets a 30.06 Winchester Rifle with infrared night scope and laser sight, he's going to expect me to go hunting with him in the middle of November when it's 30 degrees below zero.

At this point, not only am I ticked off because I'm going to have to start my count over for the third time, but now -- simply because I needed some toilet paper -- Brad's going to make me go hunting with him when it's 30 degrees below zero in the middle of November.

We'll be sitting in a pasture somewhere -- he with his 30.06 Winchester rifle with infrared night scope and laser sight and me with my nice hot cup of hot chocolate -- he'll hear the rustle of a deer in the nearby plum thicket. He'll prepare to take the shot with his brand new 30.06 Winchester rifle with infrared night scope and laser sight, but because he's holding that stupid gun instead of drinking hot chocolate, his fingers will be numb and somehow, he'll end up shooting me.

"Oh good grief, Gloria."

In complete exasperation, I wrestle my way out of the cocoon I've made of my covers and get up to go use the restroom.

I climb back into bed, find the most comfortable spot, cuddle into my blankets, close my eyes, and count.

One, two, three ... 568, 569, 570. By this time my sheep are starting to pile on top of each other in their pen.

I wonder how many people will show up for my funeral? "GLORIA, STOP THAT!" I command.

It's midnight.

I begin counting again. 1, 2, 3, ... 752, 753, 754...

Brad and I are driving along a picturesque country road. Brad notices a promising draw in a picturesque pasture, complete with plum thickets. He pulls the pickup over, grabs his brand new 30.06 Winchester Rifle with infrared night scope and laser sight and I grab my hot chocolate. We find what looks like a good position in the field and wait -- freezing -- for that perfect rack to appear from the plum thickets ...

It's 1 o'clock.

There's sweat on my brow and my heart is pounding. It takes me a few minutes to calm down.

Again, I begin the count.

One, two, three ... 1,123, 1,124, 1,125 ...

As I finally start to drift off, my last conscious thought escapes my lips.

"Next time, don't forget the toilet paper."