(Author’s note: this entry makes a little more sense knowing it was written two weeks ago.)
Your body is not a bank. In so far as you are not made up of mortar, timber or stone, this is pretty obvious. The bank as a metaphor for your body’s function doesn’t work well, on many levels. You see… with a bank you can’t continue to make withdrawals without the occasional deposit. The horrible reality of my body is that I can continue to make withdrawals long after a bank would have cut me off. The occasion of this observation is an example of bad judgment, whose consequences I reap at this very moment. Last night I offered my sleep on the altar of sacrifice to the football gods, in hopes that the fortunes of at least one of my favorite teams would improve (the mighty – if slightly overrated – Gators not withstanding; their accomplishments having faded with the awful performances witnessed yesterday).
Earlier in the day the home team (the Bucs) came to the stadium pick up their paychecks. They stuck around for a few hours, shedding a few pounds of pride, and making a few fans nostalgic for the days of Sam Wyche. Later that evening, my alternate team took the field in prime time, looking to spoil the perfect start of the team formerly from Baltimore. They spent the first half playing to the strengths of the Equus Shoes… stacking the line and playing single-coverage on their exceptional wide-outs on defense, and attacking the edges of their undersized (but fast) defensive line on offense. It was during this display of the Patriot’s coaching staff out-smarting themselves that I made the decision to make my sacrifice. Rather than go to bed (like a sane person), I stayed up to watch the whole thing.
The butcher’s bill for the evening (besides a couple of disappointing football scores) was three and a half hours of sleep.
Assuming my wife has any pity for me (she doesn’t), my kids could play quietly after dinner (I don’t have anything else to say about that), and the bank metaphor of physiology holds more water than your average fork; I could just go to bed around six this evening to balance the books. Even if I could… I just can’t. After working all day, coming home to chores, child bed-time prep, and dinner; going straight to bed feels like betrayal. I can’t just go to sleep with out doing something just for me.
No, I won’t be catching up on my sleep anytime soon. In fact, I may make matters worse tonight (I’ve been itching to play Halo 2 again).
My mind is cruel this way, when it comes to sleep. The truly troubling aspect of this ordeal is that I knew all of this going into last night, and I still stayed up late to watch the Patriots lose to the Equus Shoes. I knew I’d spend all week not catching up on my sleep, regretting it every single morning, and repeating the performance the following night.
Hello. My name is John and I’m an idiot.