Wendi came up to bed late on Saturday. Still recovering from an exhausting week, I’d passed out with my head still an inch away from the pillow. Still, when Wendi joined me an hour or so later, I woke up enough to have a brief conversation with her before returning to my previously scheduled snoring.
I found out about our talk the next night, when I asked Wendi when she’d come to bed. She laughed and remarked “I told you that you wouldn’t remember.”
This isn’t uncommon for me, to operate in a state just below consciousness. Usually I just stare at people — not in the “Paranormal Activity” demon possession manner that involves hours of dedicated looming, but in a peevish “who interrupts my slumber” way. It’s a wonder, really, that I don’t have cats thrown at me more often.
I’ve been an “active” sleeper my whole life. As a pre-teen, I once came downstairs and talked to my parents when they came home late. Then, having never woken up, I went back to bed. When they told me about it the next day, I’d been incredulous.
I’m curious what all I get up to in my sleep. Do I walk around? Play with the cats? Watch movies? I’m tempted to get a nanny cam to record my nocturnal life, but I’m afraid of finding out how much the cats abuse me. I know they steal my pillow, the furry bastards.
Maybe I can train myself to clean the library in my sleep. Or maybe, you know, sleep.