Parasomnia and Men with Chubby Buttocks
by Bella Rum
H is still sleeping, but I’ve been up a while. I got a good night’s sleep, not waking until 4:44. That’s almost 5:00 a.m., and I consider 5:00 a.m. to be honest-to-goodness morning time. The night was uneventful. I don’t recall any dreams, and I didn’t swing on H or run into a wall or piece of furniture, or sit up in bed screaming at someone only I could see. In my book, that’s a thumbs-up kind of night. Speaking of books, I just ordered a new book. It’s a thriller/detective: The Sleepwalker by Chris Bohjalian. I’ve never read this author and know little about the book, but honestly… could I pass up a title like that?
I’ve finally come to the full-fledged realization that I’m a bona fide sleepwalker. I’ve probably taken this too lightly for a while, believing that these were only widely spaced, semi-isolated incidents that would eventually go away, or at the very least, would not become dangerous.
There were long stretches without any incidents, but they slowly increased in frequency and intensity. They started out with me sitting up in bed and yelling at someone only I could see, then a rebellious hand knocking water off a nightstand or hitting the headboard, and eventually to where I find myself today, running into furniture, tripping over things, jumping up and down and spinning in circles.
I had another dream a few nights ago. Putin had poisoned Barbara Walters, and she was dying. She asked me to get her purse and camera that she’d left in another room and a newspaper article she’d been reading. When I attempted to retrieve them, a man tried to wrestle the purse and camera out of my hands. I swung on him, and I hit H in the mouth. This is a problem. I suggested that he start sleeping in another room, but no go with that idea. He’s afraid I’ll kill myself in the middle of a crazy dream. The guard rail for the bed has not arrived, but it should be here soon.
On another front, I had an appointment with Dr. Heartthrob yesterday. He is so cute. After the visit, H wanted to go to lunch and make a few more stops, so I needed to use the restroom. I walked through a door that led to a hallway, and lightly knocked on the restroom door. No answer. I opened the door, and a man was in the midst of doing what we all do in restrooms. Oh, dear. He wasn’t wearing regular pants or jeans that have a fly. He was wearing sweat pants. They were down around his upper thighs, exposing his round, chubby heinie. He started to turn toward me. Without saying a word (no excuse me, no I’m sorry, no nothing), I closed the door as fast as I could. You must agree, conventional rules of etiquette do not apply in these situations. The important thing here was not apologizing, but preventing even a second of eye contact… or any other contact, and I did not want to see his one-eyed monster. Oh, my God!
I walked back through the waiting room, barley in control. It was all I could do to keep a lid on my bubbling, near-manic laughter. Why is it that sometimes when we do things like that, laughter is the first response? I was near hysterical by the time I reached the car. No propriety, not an ounce in my bones, I put my head down and guffawed. Oh, the expression on that man’s face as he started to turn toward me. Thank goodness I closed the door before he even saw me, or before I saw it. Better for everyone.