Bad Sleeper

My friend Oonie once accused my friend Kevin of being a “bad sleeper.”

“What’s a bad sleeper?” I asked.

“He doesn’t breathe well.  It sounds awful.  Sometimes, he stops altogether.  It’s actually scary to listen to him.”

Oonie happened to find Kevin sleeping on my sofa one morning—that’s the story behind that.

Seems I am not a particularly good sleeper, either.  I am not sure exactly what I do when I sleep, but it is not all sleep.  I know I dream of planes crashing, of loved ones, and fish.  Lots and lots of fish.  But, evidently, much more is going on.  In my sleep, something bigger is happening.  Maybe I am fighting giant aliens with six arms from outer-space.  Perhaps I am moving mountains made of solid granite.

Here is the evidence: I often wake in crazy positions with bedding twisted around me like thick jungle vines and my pillows far flung.

Last night, I woke in a sweat.  My bedding lay in a heap atop me.  One of my pillows was at my feet instead of at my head.

That might be kind of normal for me—except for one thing.  I was clutching the pillow case in my hands.  Somehow, I had squirted the pillow from its case and then kicked the pillow down to the other end of my bed.

Mitch: 1

Six-armed aliens from outer-space: 0

--Mitchell Hegman