I don’t sleep in the nude very often, having learned that slumber au naturale and parenthood can be an embarassing mix. Years ago, when my son was first mobile, I’d nixed the nightie on a particularly warm summer evening only to be awakened at roughly four o’clock in the morning by a finger jabbing my right boob and a little voice asking, “How come you’re so squishy there?” Ever since, I’ve been a big fan of pajamas.

Last night, however, I took a long, hot bath after my son was in bed and, knowing that 42-year-old bladder wouldn’t let me sleep later than 6:30 am, I just collapsed in bed naked as a jaybird. And, yes, it felt sinfully good.

As luck would have it, my bladder woke me up at the usual time this morning. At that hour, I have to admit, I’m a slow mover. I tried to bargain with my bladder for another hour, even a half-hour, of sleep, and apparently I won. But, like so many such victories, it was an illusion. Although I’d fallen back asleep, I dreamed I’d gotten up, shuffled to the bathroom, and settled on the toilet to pee for a very, very long time. Needless to say, some little part of my brain began sounding an alarm: “Hey, idiot! You’re NOT in the bathroom, you’re in bed under an electric blanket. Wake up before bad things happen!” That got me up and moving quickly.

First thing I noticed when I opened my eyes — okay, second thing, because I first made sure I hadn’t peed in the bed — was that I’d kicked off the blanket and, for reasons unknown to me, my naked body gleamed in technicolor. My left boob was amber; my thighs and feet a sickly green; and crimson streaked down the right side of my body. I looked like a frat house floor the morning after Jell-o shot night.

Of course, my bladder made it clear that I didn’t have the luxury of tripping out on the pretty colors, so I hurried to the bathroom and did my thing. Halfway back to the bed it dawned on me that I hadn’t turned on a light; I hadn’t needed one. I could see my way out of the bathroom toward the bedroom door, then around the foot of the bed and past the television all the way to my nightstand the path was clearly lit. That kaleidoscope of colors which had been playing on my skin moments earlier? It emanated from a variety of gadgets around my room.

Suddenly, I understood why I so often wake up sprawled diagonally on the bed, my neck twisted oddly so I can tuck my face beneath my arm, a mound of pillows piled on top of my head and with a sore back that even an irrationally expensive mattress hasn’t been able to fix. Despite my blackout shades, despite the drywall I had installed inside the arch window through which the morning sun used to shine directly into my eyes, despite my closed bedroom door with the draft stopper at the bottom to block out light from our living room, my bedroom was still illuminated.

The culprits? Just about everything in my bedroom that requires electricity, the number of which increased dramatically after Christmas. Why the hell do gadget manufacturers’ believe their widgets shouldn’t just perform their function, they should also have a light showing that they’re doing so?

Okay, I get why there’s a red light telling me if the house security system is armed and a green light if it’s not, although I’ve never understood why they couldn’t put those freaking lights beneath the plastic door that flips up to cover the keypad itself. I fixed that annoying gleam years ago with a few strips of electric tape.

But what’s with the weather radio emitting an amber glow to let me know it’s conducting a weekly test, as if I couldn’t read the text display informing me as much? Why does my iPod speaker system need to emit a cobalt blue glow all day and (more importantly) night to let me know it’s working… as if I couldn’t tell by the music coming out of it when I turn the thing on? Shouldn’t the heat coming out of my electric blanket — and not some tiny orange light — confirm the thing is working? And why the hell does my iPhone charger need a red light to let me know when my iPhone is plugged into it and a green one to let me know when it’s not? I know if my phone’s attached, and in case I’m such an idiot that I can’t tell, the phone itself has a nifty little display to tell me when it’s charging.

At six forty-five this morning — when I would have much preferred to be asleep — I slipped on a pair of PJs and started heaving furniture away from the walls of my room, reaching over dressers and crawling behind the bed, all in an effort to unplug all of the crap that fills my room with light and disrupts my sleep. Not surprisingly, there was quite a bit of cursing and a sore back involved.

When I’d finally disconnected the cable box, the television, the cordless phone, iPhone charger, iPod player, the laptop and it’s cooling deck, the digital clock (a backup for those rare times I do forget to charge my iPhone) and the vaporizer, it was finally — finally — pitch black in my room. Cave like. Dark enough to sleep and, perchance, to dream of being George Clooney’s beard.

But could I go back to sleep? Nope, not a chance. Between all those lights and all of that moving furniture, I was completely and irreversibly awake at that point and, of course, I had to pee. Again.

Saturday, January 23rd, 2010, 9:58 am   |   My Venomous Life  |  RSS feed Comments and pings are currently closed.