I did a sleep study at UNC Hospitals Sunday night (more on that later). I was talking with my friend Erika about the ideal outcome of it.
Me: I hope they say, “You have a very rare condition called blah blah blah, but it’s easily treated.”
Erika: With a pill.
Me: That comes in a generic.
Erika: That you only have to take once a year.
Me: The only side effect is weight loss.
When in reality, they’ll probably say, “We don’t know what’s wrong with you. Go do some yoga.”
In addition to my ridiculous night-time teeth-grinding, I also conjure wild and woolly, fantastical tales in my dreams. The other night, Sharon, who played tuba in the middle school band with me (and whom I haven’t thought of since 1990), was going to be beheaded for a crime she may or may not have committed. Two nights ago, the company I worked for(?) was going belly-up, and my co-workers and I were trying to decide if we could keep our laptops. Last night, my dogs chased after a guy who was riding his horse alongside five-lane Blowing Rock Road, you know, there in front of the credit union; I was terrified they’d be hit by a car. I’m tired all the time.
