No, that’s not the title of my new erotic novel (can you imagine?!) but how I feel this morning. Another night of virtually no sleep due to this week’s heatwave.
I’m sitting in the study right now, sipping some ice-cold water and summoning up the courage to go out for a run. I’m determined to shift some of this lockdown belly I’ve accumulated, and moping around the apartment in a sleep-deprived stupor isn’t going to help one bit.
After going to bed early again last night – I could barely keep my eyes open on the sofa – I lay on top of the bed, fan pointed at me, window wide open. I thought my exhaustion would tip me over into sleep pretty quickly, but it wasn’t to be.
Cue another night of restless tossing and turning, all the time gasping with the heat. Twisting and groaning in a hot, sweaty mess (again no, this isn’t an extract from my novel). I’ve consistently read that going to be naked leads to a better night’s sleep. I’ve slept that way for years and year, but last night I ended up hating my own skin. Every time my arm crossed my chest or my feet touched each other, I had to shift positions. My hands and feet felt like they were on fire.
It sounded like everyone else had their windows open too, judging by the noise coming through mine. And nobody sounded particularly happy.
I did sleep, and I know I did because I remember my dreams. At least partially. They were particularly awful and involved stressful situations in an airport. Ironically, no embarrassing public nudity or an inability to find a toilet.
You have them too, right?
Once I’ve finished this water, I’m going to go for my run. It doesn’t take much: just one foot in front of the other. And hopefully it’ll wake me up. And then it’s eyes down for a busy day in the office at home. All the time hoping that tonight will bring the sleep that I’m craving so bad.
See you on the other side.