Some people believe in the phrase, “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”
I, myself, sleep like I’m dead.
On any given night, you’ll catch me snoozing on my back. Legs straight down, heels touching, toes pointed up towards the ceiling (the heavens?). Hands clasped delicately across my chest with my fingers loosely intertwined. Chin held high.
Posture is important, even at night. You are how you sleep. That‘s the phrase, right?
Let’s face it. I look comfy. If I were in a coffin, that is.
My jaw even drops open, exposing my mouth-cave like that of a bloated bullfrog-turned-roadkill on the side of a highway. Or like one of the victims in the movie “The Ring” after they’ve stupidly watched the film that kills all its viewers. Much like Three and a Half Men. Well, that show kills your soul, at least. (Plus, laugh tracks should be outlawed in this day and age. Seriously.)
Overall, when I catch some Zs, it’s a real pretty sight – ask my old college and grad school roommates and/or exboyfriends, or Tim, my lucky husband who has the privilege of sleeping beside me every night. For. The. Rest. Of. His. Life. Poor guy. (Actually, compared to our gas-bomb-dropping/jack-hammer-snoring/skin-and-hair-flying-everywhere-scratching English Bulldog, Moe, I’m a peach to sleep next to.)
The only thing creepier than my sleep position is my sleep walking. But that’s a whole other blog. Dun dun dunnnnn. Edge. Of. Your. Seat. I know. Hate to do this to you, but my child-monster is awake. (Love you, Kell. A.K.A., the child-monster)