Sunday morning, 10am.
I’m usually rolling around in my cozy bed, mid-fantasy-dream about some weird combo of Johnny Depp, Hunter S. Thompson, and Diana Gabaldon’s famed character, Scottish stud James Fraser.
This morning however, I’m wide awake, having had my coffee, made the bed, and whipped my hair into some kind of acceptable state of tousle.
Alas, this is not due to having rushed some stud out the door earlier.
Instead, I must place the delicate finger of blame on the persistent, ugly-step-sister of joy – Anxiety. She’s one tough gal.
After an exhausting life-or-death sprint, and trying to scream with no sound coming out, I awoke completely disoriented, unable to move from my prone position in the twisted, sweat-soaked sheets.
When I finally stumbled from the haze of my nightmare, I realized I was in my own bed, albeit in a weird position half down the mattress with my arms stretched open, my feet hanging off the end of the bed, in some weird blanket twisting torture.
I checked the time on my glow-in-the-dark watch face. 3:15am. The witching hour. Superb.
Untangling myself from the cold, damp, sheets I stumbled out of bed and flung my door open. Witching hour be damned, I needed fresh air and a mind-clearing-chocolate-something-or-other.
Wedging as much of one of my homemade chocolate-chip cookies in my sticky, nighttime mouth, I dragged my sleepy feet to the patio and stepped out into the night air.
Bills, money, my job, what if, what if, what if, what if, what if I got it all wrong? What if I never get it right? What if, what if, what if, what if….. I breathed the cool air in and out, holding back tears and trying to get my heart-rate back to normal from the dangerous pace of being frozen in fear as I came out of my nightmare.
It’s moments like these that having a lover who feels your touch and takes you in his arms during a moment of half-sleep can make it all ok. It’s nights that this that make you understand why we choose, in general, to go through life in a dependable partnership. A hug can clear your head and cure your racing heart-rate at 3am much faster than eating a cookie or getting some air.
So here I am. 10am, wide awake, with nothing to show for my anxiety but a bad hair-do and a fresh pot of coffee. Like so many other people I know who create a convincing front, no one would ever guess what we fabulously strong, professional, single-gals get up to at 3am.