I Feel Sorry For My Husband

Nighttime is the accepted time when decent people get to be in bed gathering their rest for the next days' demands upon them.

Sometimes that idyllic circumstance occurs, most nights, thanks to me, it does not.

Hubby is the long-suffering sort who puts up with me mostly because explaining a murder charge to our Bishop might be a trifle inconvenient.

I have nightmares. Not the garden variety "gee that was unpleasant", roll over and go back to sleep stuff. Oh no. They are heart-pounding, gut twisting, violent and agonizing dreams that leave whomever is nearby absent their sleep.

Sometimes, I wake myself up screaming, talking, yelling in my sleep. I have only vague snatches of what was dreamed but they are, in and of themselves, enough to make my flesh crawl during daylight hours.

Years and years ago, I heard the Disney inspired song "A Dream Is A Wish Your Heart Makes". How tender. How inspiring. How not true...

Who in heaven's name would dream about the crap that destroys the opportunity for people to get a decent night's sleep? Who would want to be terrorized in the night with imagery that Hollywood would be hard pressed to duplicate even with some creepy dude in a hockey mask? Who in their right mind would dream to be scared out of their wits and, additionally, to scare their bed mate half to death as well?

I don't wish for dreams like that. I wish and hope and pray for pleasant dreams. I don't get them all of the time and like the scriptures are fond of reminding me "there must be opposition in all things". I suppose that having horrible nights like last night are some sort of balance for having had several nights of dreaming world travel was within my grasp - pleasing vistas, glorious history and wonderful foods of the world all during the blissful hours between going to bed and hearing the alarm.

Instead, last night was an opportunity for my husband to convince me that I was alright and that what was causing me to scream was not real, not there and not happening.

I hate crap like that. I absolutely hate it. I wake feeling tired because I haven't enjoyed restful sleep, but worse, I wake feeling guilty because I have deprived Rick of HIS sleep in my nocturnal battles against the invisible evil of the imperfect dream world that occupies my thoughts.

I hope tonight is better. Otherwise, I may be compelled to direct the music tomorrow while lying down. I can keep the tempo with one foot raised above the little divider... I'm sure I can...

Meanwhile, the sun is shining and the darkened phantoms of the night are fled. I pray they stay gone... I can only stand so much "opposition" in a 24-hour period.

I Smell Like a Goat

Ah, the joys of exercise. . .

Watching the taut, firm, fit people around me effortlessly glide through their various pit stops in the gym circuit du jour. . .

Seeing the muscle men strain and grunt lifting massive amounts of weight and then letting it drop to the floor in an earthshaking exhibition of all that is "He-Man" in their workout . . .

Turning on my special motivational playlist which is all about kicking butt and taking names . . .

and coming home smelling like a goat.

There must be something I am doing wrong. Offhand, I don't know what it might be, but when I manage to offend MYSELF, I know that it's time to head out the door and go home to hit the shower . . . and maybe stay there for a week.

The taut, the firm and the musclebound seldom sweat. Oh sure, once in a while I'll see a bead or two of perspiration trickle down to their chin, but I'm not seeing the buckets of life rolling from their pores.

On the other hand, I leave puddles everywhere I go even on days where I haven't been in the pool. Faithfully, I sanitize and wipe up after myself to remove both the "ick factor" and the sheer grossness of having to see that puddle of ooze on the equipment I have given my all to use.

Today was a cross training day.

Then, to prove how awesome I truly am, I came home and moved furniture in preparation for wedding guest.

Just when I was feeling like the most excellent woman in America, or at least in the SEC, for all of my hard work both outside and inside the home, the central system's automatic fan kicked on to stir the air in the Merrill Casa and the goat-like aroma of my being assaulted my eyes, my nostrils and my decency.

HOLY FLAMING COW PIES ON STEROIDS!!! I NEED A BATH!! UGH!

When other people leave the gym, they seem to be glowing with a healthy countenance and the ability to go to town and do their shopping and errands. I leave the gym with the distinct ability to offend skunks and ruin my reputation. Well, what's left of it at this point...

Where is the justice?

I have to come to grips with the fact that I am not going to just slip quietly out and go about my day. I should just plan to run through the car wash that is a scant few blocks from the gym and call it good. I do wonder though... do they have a "frequent flier" program so I can save a few bucks on that whole pass through each day?

Since I have somewhat of a phobia about public showers, I generally drag my sweat stained carcass home and shower so that I have the blessing of my shower and my creature comforts which I am not compelled to share with people who may have the blue goofus fungus on every single cell in their body.

Today, I delayed the shower to get something resembling housework done. Well... "DONE" is a strong statement. More like beat down into a relative submission for the three rooms I have called "good" over.

Now, it's time for this goat . . . uh, GIRL, to hit the shower in earnest. Otherwise, the scent will permeate the entire house forever. And I'm sure that would create a journal moment for our guests that I'd just rather not contemplate.

Calgon... take me away!! Just don't bring me back until I smell like a floral meadow instead of a meadow muffin.