A Midsummer Night’s Neurosis

Last week I wrote an entire narrative defining the time I’d spent planting trees while I was in college.  It was a solid premise.  Whimsical, if rambunctious, tale from the writer’s youth.  I spent the entire week polishing the piece before filing it as “unsuitable for public consumption”.  Not only did it lack substance and meaning, but it failed to echo the clever underpinnings and humorous analogies that hold (however loosely) my readers attention.  The illicit substance propaganda also read as “marginally career limiting”.   So, I’ll try again, in an effort to put forth a better…er…effort (off to a rough start aren’t we).  Trust that whatever follows, poor reading as it may be; is better than what you almost read today (unless you almost read something Oprah recommended).

 

I recently attended a house party where a friend referred to me as “neurotic”.  At first it seemed a miserable little word, as difficult to pronounce as it is to define.  It is one of those words who’s meaning you cannot tell by context alone.  “Travis is one neurotic son of a bitch.”  That tells us nothing.  For all we know it could mean “devilishly handsome” or “long in the trouser”.  So, I did what I always do when confronted with conversation peices that I do not fully understand, I faked a neutral response, “well, maybe (not necessarily) I am a little (not much) neurotic at times (but never after lunch).”  Then I scoured the Internet for a definition where I learned that I am, indeed, one neurotic son of a bitch.  Incidentally, I left this house warming party in a state of emotional mush amid overwhelming (and astoundingly unfounded) concerns that my girlfriend and I weren’t getting along.  Sigh.

 

At this same house party I squirted my delicious friend Kipp with mustard from 20 feet away.  Oddly, a week later (almost to the hour) I threw a Salt shaker at my bland roommate (Winks) and struck him in (or around) his face.  I have no idea why I’m suddenly mistaking my good friends for tasty meat products.  I digress.

 

I’ll concede that I’m neurotic, but I wish to point out that I manage its tangible presentations at (a minimum) a satisfactory level.  I yield to my girlfriend in arguments I cannot win, I’m hardly ever startled by my own shadow, and I never watch the 4th quarter of Saskatchewan Roughrider games.  There are, I think, other ways the characteristic presents itself that aren’t so easily contained.

 

I have nightmares.  To a certain extent I always have and (perhaps not to the same extent) I expect everyone does.  I confided in a close, yet unhelpful, friend concerning how I should treat such nocturnal interruptions.  He stated, “Just manage nightmares the same way you watch horror films.”  That advice is about as useful as Chapstick when your head’s on fire.  I manage horror films by refusing to watch them, and that’s worked out quite well.  If I were going to watch a horror film (which I’m not) I’d employ the age old technique of covering my eyes and repeating the survival mantra of, “its only a movie, its only a movie.”  According to my friend, the very next time I’m completely asleep and being chased down a long dark hallway by Mr. Clean (adorning stilettos and a feather boa) I should stop, cover my eyes, and yammer “its only a dream, its only a dream.”  Not only is this bit of advice completely useless as a defense against a cross-dressing marketing icon; it also neglects one critical bit of logic.  The difference between a horror film and a nightmare is that, in the first instance, you’re aware you’re watching a film.  In the second case, as far as you’re concerned, the nightmare is your reality…and no matter how ridiculous it may be, you’re going to believe it to be real until it’s over.  At which point I (personally) wake up in a cold sweat before entering an Olympic hurdling event toward my on-suite washroom (lest ”Mrs.” Clean attack from the adjacent furnace room).

 

My alarm clock has not gone off in 17 years.  I have the ability to sit up in bed precisely five minutes before it’s scheduled alarm time (which is, these days, 8 am).  Because of this I’m not accustomed to the eardrum shattering shriek these devices produce.  Imagine my surprise when, one morning, an alarm clock erupted in my bedroom at exactly 6 am.  A fact made even more suspicious when you consider that this was a second alarm clock not of my own.  Here’s the rub.  Over the last month my years of conditioning to wake prior to an alarm clock sounding have taken over and programmed my body to discontinue sleeping prior to the rogue alarm sounding.   Now I wake up at 5:55 am, for absolutely no reason in particular.  I sit up, I wait for the 6 am alarm to stop beeping, I go back to sleep, and I wake up precisely 5 minutes before my 8 am alarm.  This can’t be good for my neurosis.

 

Six weeks ago I performed my most astounding sleep related indiscretion to date.  No element of colorful writing can do this feat justice.  At 4:30 am on a Monday morning I got out of bed and walked upstairs.  I sauntered into my roommates’ bedroom.  Winks looked up at me and said (and I quote), “Weber, you are one creepy [expletive].”  A completely accurate statement as it were.  I turned and stomped out of his room and proceeded to march around the house for a half an hour.  I returned to my bed, sent Ashley a text message (stating that I missed her), then layed back down.  I’d been sound asleep the entire time.

 

Winks realized it amid the 30 seconds that I’d teetered beside his bed and smiled at him like a perverted carney (lucky for me, or I’d have received an elbow to the sternum).  He was good enough to get up and follow me around the house to ensure I didn’t decide to barbecue the neighbors’ cat.

 

It’s no secret that varying levels of stress can cause trouble sleeping and (perhaps) some small element of anxiety has crept into my psyche and caused these minor disturbances.  Having said that, I’ll be the first person to admit that my melancholy, maladjusted, and muddled neurosis makes for considerably better reading.