Sleepless

I've been having trouble sleeping. I've never been a great sleeper (I wake often and easily), but I typically stay at least mostly asleep for a good 7-8ish hours per night.

The last two nights I think I might have gotten 5 hours of sleep total. Why? I have no idea. My husband is out of town, but this typically has the effect of making me sleep better, sprawled sideways across our entire king-sized bed. (Anyone who says they like to snuggle while they are asleep is lying or insane...or possibly addicted to sedatives that prevent them from noticing how heavy limbs can be when draped across your unconscious body. Snuggling is a great awake activity, but once I'm ready for sleep, you can keep to your side, thanks.)

So yes, I've been up all night, starting somewhere around 12:30 a.m. (I usually fall asleep around 10:30 p.m. because I am old and I get up by 6 every morning) and lasting off and on until around 4:30 when my body decides it would suddenly like to sleep very deeply. If I am treadmilling in the morning - and I've been trying - I have to get up at 5:30 a.m. It's not good.

My only explanation for this sleeplessness is anxiety. And possibly Lady Gaga. It didn't start until I downloaded The Fame Monster and I will admit that "Paparazzi" did run on a constant mental loop last night. Perhaps I am anxious about the fact that I would rather have "Bad Romance" or even "Speechless" stuck in my head all night? No, I don't believe that's what's waking me.

Am I anxious about work? Maybe. There was (again) talk of making me an employee and now that's back on hold again for budgetary reasons, so I do often sit and weigh the pros and cons and wonder what it will take to find a job I just know that I want...if suddenly I could have any career, what would I do? Would I wish myself the courage and willpower to sit down and write finally? Maybe so.

Maybe it's Chuck Klosterman. Come to think of it, I just started his "Killing Yourself to Live" audiobook (audiobooks make my commute so much better) on Monday. The narrator (who is not him) drives me a little nuts, but that's at least partially because I've been listening to David Sedaris and Augusten Burroughs for the last several months, so I am now accustomed to having the author narrate.

Anyway, I really like this book. His musical commentary is both irritating and endearing, as rock critics generally are. It makes something ache inside of me. As with everything I like, it seems, I am envious. My inner voice could be a kindred spirit to his narrative voice. I am envious that he learned (or perhaps was born with the ability) to articulate his inner monologue. And I do mean articulate as in it's articulate. Sure, he rambles, but his observations can be witty and fleetingly concise and fully-formed in a way that I have not mastered. To be clear, I don't have rock critic envy, just writing envy.

I wonder how much more I would enjoy books if I wasn't constantly thinking, "Why can't I write like that?"

So it seems we've got career uncertainty, fear of failure and Lady Gaga as possible causes of my sleeplessness...since two are fairly routine parts of my life, I'm going with Lady Gaga on this one. Those infectious beats must have triggered some sort of epinephrine-like response. Maybe that's her super power.