Disciple of Sleep

“Yea, all things live forever, though at times they sleep and are forgotten.”  -- H. Rider Haggart

Our bodies come from this organic space ship. On loan, flexible, and resilient to abuse. But part of the rental agreement built into our dirt suit is a daily shut down of the consciousness. Sleep is where the body’s recovery from the day’s output occurs. The mind processes all the day’s inputs into the brain during sleep. All the while dreams entertain us through the wee hours of idleness. Sleep is the third member of the physical trinity. I would argue sleep remains far more universally accepted and constant compared to food and water whims. If attention is paid to personal sleep patterns, a time traveler of our collect primitive selves is nightly present.

The optimum sleeping conditions are dark, quiet, and cool rooms. A modern cave. Since Edison introduced the incandescent light bulb, humans have disrupted circadian rhythms. Go camping during anytime of the year. Drowsiness sets in as the day moves toward dusk, then gives up to night. Then the body begins to wake as the sun’s rays chase the stars away. Stepping down interior lighting an hour before bed will soothe the ancients inside our system. Then go to bed in very low light. Most importantly, go to bed in the same sleeping spot in the house every night.

Familiar sleeping settings are vital to long term healthy REM sleep. The people populating the dawn of time needed to be reassured the bumps in the night were not coming to eat them while sleeping. This is why people get crappy sleep in hotel rooms. It is not the pillows, or jet lag, or fools next door, or all the other excuses. – Nope – That foreign cave ain’t a proven safe place for the gazillion year old part of our brains that grants the unconscious mind control to offline our fight or flight lizard brain. I submit, Grade-A sleep only comes from exact positioning in the same bed, night after night, for years upon years.

My wife calls me a “sleep princess.” Once I have my cave dark, cool, and quiet, then the real princessing begins. A ceiling fan on high for great air circulation. The fan is also a great source of white noise, which blocks out disrupting sounds of harmless bumps in the night. I always sleep on the same side of the bed. Then come the pillows. There is a human ecology PhD dissertation in my pillow placements.

I will not yield my sleep. Dogmatic, yes. Sleep is the gateway to my fitness, family, and financial livelihoods. With zero chemical stimulants in my life, 4:30 a.m. arrives on the weekday’s alarm clock and my body’s internal clock on the weekends. Rigid and ritualistic sleep is renter’s insurance for my dirt suit.  

Wet dreams

I have swum millions of yards over thirty plus years of competitive swimming. Every training lap has been in six pools. Hours upon hours in the same pools, with the same scenery. Then how come I can't have a normal dream about swimming? Never in one of the pools I have trained in before. They ain’t even in the same configuration from dream to dream. And I use configuration lightly. The aquatic complexes in my dreams are expansive natatoriums, either designed by over medicated third graders or Soviet era architects with penchants for steampunk dirigible hangers and inflated senses of special utilitarianism. A fully functioning newspaper pressroom in the deep end makes complete sense. Vet your sources. You misquoted the Queen on page 4.

Recalling swimming should be an easy transition from the conscious space to the subconscious realm… a concrete rectangle hole, clear water, red and blue lane ropes, and eight black lines on the pool bottom. What in the name of Ken Kesey’s imaginary narwhal would John Wayne be necking with Doris Day on an inflatable alpaca while we are in the middle of a sprint set? Entering sleep’s darkness surrenders any and all control over the evening’s REM swim practice. At least my suit is tied and goggles fit, because this is a 3-1-1 call to Oz's police station. 

The frequency of strange dreams is increasing as the board certified professionals refine my medication cocktail. Swimming through the water early on in the REM cycle is an interpretive dance of flight and underwater breathing. Every child fancies the dreams where flight is possible. Every swimmer dreams of underwater breathing… It ensures better shoulder rotation. How blissful these dreams can be. Then the spicy food enters the digestive track.

Once capsaicin chemicals pollute the intestines, weird gains creative license for the balance of the evening. My elegant stroke degrades, resembling grandma’s mallard duck whirlybird wind spinner in a molasses river. The water is quickly replaced by a poorly maintained cricket pitch. It is very challenging to get full power out of my butterfly kick when the country club’s grounds keeper goes cheap with Astroturf. The economy is booming you insolent bastard. Spring for the good stuff! The board will be receiving a strongly worded email. I don’t dare get out though. The sign clearly reads, “No rain checks for turf conditions.” I might be in the grips of a spicy food induced trip, but fiscal responsibility is multidimensional. Better finish the workout before the alarm goes off.

New hair cut?

The journey from fat to fit is chock-full of experiences. Happiness and bliss are mere specks in the rear view mirror before anyone notices I have made forward progress. At least I can drive with my pants buttoned up while weeping over the sight of the road ahead filled with a joyless, carbless existence. Hey kids, only 25 more miles until we can stop at the largest air and water buffet west of the Rockies. 

Besides the massive mood swings toward the foul, there has been little change to my body. Even though I have lost 17 pounds at the time of printing, the general population of friends, family, and coworkers won't see much change for 10-15 more pounds. Usually the first roadside indication people are sensing change in my body comes in the form of a cock-eye head hinge. You know that one: eyebrows scrunched, head to the side, as their brain plays the game, "One of these things just doesn't belong here." Stopping midstride in front of a person is unnerving - - especially for the normals. I enjoy those moments, and having no desire to rob them of their satisfaction in solving the puzzle, I just stand there mirroring their hinge and facial expression. They are locked into this awkward moment and I ain't got nowhere to be, so we are taking the ride! Quick, think of something. He ain't saying anything. Why the hell is he standing there head hinging with that stupid face. "Uh, hey Jarvis...uuuuhhh. How's it going? uuuuh... New hair cut?" Even if my head garden has not been pruned by the skilled sheers of a mediocre strip mall stylist in months, the answer is always a resounding, "Yes! And thank you for noticing."

Next stop on the road trip to Destination 195... Dietary one-upmanship by those in the fit clique. Then off to the weight loss equivalent of the Spanish Inquisition -- endless variations of the question, "How did you do it?"

Better me. Better see. Better we!

A friend recently commented on age and diet. “The hardest part is even though we work out and burn calories,” which I interpreted as calories into the mouth are calories worked out of the body. Accounting 101, first in \ first out. She quickly burst my rudimentary logic bubble by adding, “you can’t eat whatever you want.” That is complete hogwash! Fake news. I reject reality and submit my own. I work out therefore I shall eat what pleases. Then my belt buckle exploded in the gym's locker room after a work out. Duly noted universe. 

Dieting and fitness are means to many ends: More energy. Greater strength. Increased vitality. Less stress on the belts. And most importantly, looks. I would be a charlatan not to admit one of the biggest driving forces sustaining me over the weeks and months to work toward a firmer, leaner, younger looking body, is to catch the wife checking me out. The serotonin levels sky rocket when she stops short for a second helping of eye candy. With a little less of me strutting through the house, she realizes that her man's dad-bod is shedding away towards an echo of the chiseled glory days. I am, reward.  

If there are any married men in the audience, they know. They know how it feels to catch her in an extended gaze. A double take. Experiencing déjà vu in the walking flesh. Shazam! Look at my man and his fine self. MEEEOW. Oh how sweet it is men to have yo woman gawking. That’s right… take it all in, cuz there’s more coming from where that came from, honey. She is frozen in awe. But the frozen awe ain’t permanent with married women. Awe is quickly thawed by the heat of jealousy. She knows her man is getting it together again. Look’n all thirty-something, thinking he is twenty-something. If she knows and notices him, then she knows the women of ill repute are not far behind. The temptress and her harlots. Every married woman is taught from diapers to finishing school that hordes of fast women down at the juke joint lust for a handsome married man to soil.* Gotta have a plan ladies.  

A fit man disrupts the relationship power dynamic. Married women can see the shift in balance the moment her man walks in the door. It’s the clothes that tip her off. A former fat man who is now a fit man wears the only clothes he owns -- holding off on needless clothing purchases until the bitter end. A fit man means a new wardrobe that she can buy. The wife likes to shop for her man. This is the perfect time to modernize his look. However, a fit man needs skinny clothes, and skinny clothes are in the young hot and hip sections. These are the clothes she has desired her man to wear since meeting him. Her dream come true, a fit husband fashionably dressed… Yet, how will she keep the harlots at bay? Catch-22. So what’s you gonna do honey? I know you like what you see. So, you'd better be ready for the fit me.

*Better Homes and Gardening (1952) “Keeping your marriage strong and your man in his recliner with a great martini.”