My wife oftentimes has trouble sleeping. She’s a night worrier—meaning her thoughts are consumed by upcoming assignments and tasks and obligations and deeds and plans. She’ll turn and roll and sigh and sigh and roll and turn.
I rarely have trouble sleeping. Worries don’t burden me come darkness. When the light goes off and the head hits the pillow, I’m almost always out.
Except for one thing.
Every so often, it gets inside my brain that I have to pee. Then, 15 minutes later, pee again. Then, 15 minutes after that, pee again. It’s a vicious cycle, one usually reserved for 80-year-old men named Mort. I don’t know why this happens, or what I can do about it, but there’s nothing worse than staring at a glowing clock, seeing 3:46 am and knowing you’re about the piss for the 86th time this evening.
And that, dear friends, is why I’m exhausted.
