Oh, I remember sleep.
There was a time, not so very long ago, that I could climb into bed at a reasonable hour, snuggle under the blankets, read my book for 5 or 10 minutes and then fall fast asleep until morning. Alas, no longer.
Now I find, after fighting to keep my eyes open while sitting on the couch watching TV at some ridiculously early hour, I finally take myself off to bed. I plop down, more on top of the covers than under, and read for a few minutes. So far, so good. Drowsing, I put my book away and plump my pillow just so, and drift slowly off.
Just before that lovely plunk into dreamy oblivion, I am suddenly aware of a rising heat. The covers are unceremoniously thrown to the side, a leg flails out to be thrown on top of the covers and away from touch of any other potentially warm thing (far from the blissfully sleeping dogs and husband taking up valuable real estate - damn them, on so many levels). I have to pull my hair off my neck, spreading it across the pillow and away from touching any portion of my face. I reach for the flamenco-style fan I keep close and begin fanning. My brain, just seconds ago so quiet and sleepy and drifty, is now in sharp focus, wide awake and all too aware that I'm hot and wide f----g awake.
Finally, it comes again. An hour or three later (I know, because against my better judgment, I keep checking the clock. I want to have accurate, quantifiable facts when I do my complaining the next day. Poor me, I was awake for hhhoooouuurrrss), I drop off once again.
This time, I awaken more slowly. Swimming gradually up into conscious thought, "Do I get up to pee, or can I make it until morning?" Shifting to glance at the clock, I realize I am an oil slick of wet, sweaty, sticky skin and sheets. Oh, ugh. I actually slept through the hot flash (oh, hot flash is a woefully inadequate term to describe what happens; more like seared and basted), and have now awoken in the post-perspiration state, like a sponge that's being wrung out. If I move, I will have to contend with the body shaped wet imprint in the bed. If I'm lucky, I can stay perfectly still (except for once again freeing my leg from the covers to get some cool air relief) and simply fall back into a soggy sleep. All will be dry again by morning (disgusting? don't judge it until you've woken, exhausted, in a stew of your own sweat.). If the water I drank the night before proves to much for my now conscious bladder, I have to come back to the bed with a towel to lay on, because my side of the bed is now swampish.
If you are a woman, and of a certain age, you may read this and say "Yeah, been there, done that." Amen, sister. Testify. For that whatever percentage of you who instead shake your heads and say "Oh, how awful. So glad I never had to deal with that", I am envious and pettily jealous and hateful. If you are a younger woman, not yet anywhere near the joys of this stage of female physiology, I say, fear not, it apparently doesn't happen to everyone. (Altho, to my daughter, apologies in advance. My sisters are doing it, I am doing it. I fear it is in your genes to also succumb when it's your time. Unless they finally come up with safe & effective drugs by then.)
You'd think there could at least be a silver lining here, like with all that sweating and interrupted sleep, there would be some commensurate weight loss. But, nooooooo.
I have to say, this is pretty compelling support for the concept that God is a man.