I like sleep. This part of me has never changed. I operate best when I've had at least eight hours of it, when I can toss and turn at will during it, when I can wake from it naturally because of the sun through my window, the morning sounds of the City, my stirring brain.
I value sleep so much that I spend five evenings out of the week, from Sunday to Thursday, feeling pressured to get to bed as soon as possible, knowing that at 5:30 the next morning, I would have to be awake again--before the sun comes up, before City sounds, when my neurons are still trying to find each other. I compel myself to be abed by 10 o'clock on these nights, whether I actually feel sleepy or I will it so.
Naturally, then, I look forward to Friday and Saturday evenings. Saturday's evening especially. Sam and I usually reserve Friday's to spend with Allen at his house (where I would fall asleep anyway), but Saturday's evening. . .? Aaahhhh Saturday.
See, Sam and I don't have a bustling social life. Yesterday, as we were driving Jason and Toby back home from brunch, Toby asked what we did for fun. We didn't have much to say in response. We have a small number of friends. We live within walking distance of at least six bars in the South of Market neighborhood, and not once have we stepped foot in one since we moved here. Our typical Saturday nights consist of me tooling around on-line before falling asleep and him watching anime on the Cartoon Network.
This routine was tentative at first, neither of us wanting to seem as lame to each other as we really were. But really, he loves his cartoons. I love sleep. I don't think there could be a routine more custom-tailored to our lives. And I think we've made our peace with it.
Though yesterday was technically Sunday, we both have today off because of Martin Luther King Jr. Day. So last night, where I typically would feel the need to begin my bed-going ritual at 8:30, we lounged on the couch together instead, watching a random episode of Bones. I then took a shower, brushed my teeth, and was back on the couch by 9:30. Sam was watching something called the Venture Brothers on, yes, the Cartoon Network, and try as I did, I could not make sense of it.
So I propped my feet up on Sam's lap and tried keeping my eyes open for a while, tried following the inane and convoluted storyline playing itself out on TV. No avail. It didn't help that I was tired. It was almost 10.
I laid there for a while, gently fighting the good fight against the weight of my eyelids. I knew that down the street, people were drinking, wearing their best jeans and leather and cruising each other for a chance at a good time. Elsewhere in the City, people were dancing, getting high, gyrating to the thumpa-thump that I once romanticized and thought of as the embodiment of cool. Somewhere, people were having fun.
Eventually, the jabber of the Venture brothers, whoever they may be, began to fade. Sam's laughter took on a fuzzy, far-off quality. It was sweet, this sleep, sweeter because I could choose whether or not I wanted it. Fall asleep at 10 o'clock? Sure. Stay up until midnight? Just as fine. The next morning's waking would be my choice too.
But there was actually no choice as soon as I closed my eyes. It was an act of surrender. With my arms crossed against my chest, I thought of where else I would rather be, where else Sam would, and what other kind of fun we could be having outside of the confines of our house. I couldn't come up with anything before I was out.
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