I love the cool fall and the quietness of being at home.  What I don’t like is the unfortunate circumstance of my body realizing that it, for the first time in its life, has a cool, quiet, completely undisturbed room to sleep in, no deadlines, nobody making noise or waiting, and quite possibly the most comfortable bedroom ever invented.

Not that these are bad circumstances.  But I’m sort of unhappy that my body has realized all of these blissful things, because it has decided, without my permission, to make up all the hours of sleep I’ve lost in the last 25 years.  All, approximately, 55 million of them.  Meaning that, when I don’t have to go somewhere, my body will sleep 11-12 hours a night.  I don’t sleep.  My body sleeps.  This is no fault of my own.

No matter how much I will myself to get up with Andy; no matter that each night I go to sleep early with him.  My body has its own will, and it is taking revenge on me for my lifetime of sleep flaunting.  Now, it says, there is nothing I can do.