What a nice way to kick off the weekend, donning a kitchen apron (lest my shirt get stained by anything but my own dinner) and shuffling out to the patio to besmirch our first spray paint booth (or large empty box) of the season. The purpose of this grimy quarter-scale structure will be revealed soon enough, but the bigger story is the $5 spray grip, made by Rust-Oleum, that gave me a little more control over the nozzle than I would’ve otherwise had with a dominant right hand that isn’t too shaky but cramps easily.
Working on this and other diversions (like lighthouse and diorama accessories) gave me an opportunity to recharge after another night, my third in a row, of waking up around 4 am and not being able to fall back asleep. Disrupted sleep is nothing new and I could deal with the neck pain — and the tight, achy facial muscles; and the odd twisting of my left ankle and wrist — but taking stock of all these problems while obnoxiously elevated (the better to prevent choking) really drove home how bizarre my nocturnal circumstances have become.
My face and limbs relaxed after I took more levodopa but sleep remained unhappily out of reach. This is normally a time of year when I might impulsively check my email overnight to see what Joe has to say about tennis; the Asian swing is underway and our favorites have been playing in the wee small hours (minus Iga Świątek and Elena Rybakina, currently taking time off amid splits with their coaches). A couple times lately I’ve even started to reach for my iPad, only to remember, “Ah, yes, there’s no point in that.”
Of all the jarring new realities I’ve adjusted to in the course of my life — never wanting to watch The Cosby Show again; losing a large intestine; and no longer detesting Nicolle Wallace, to name a few — never again hearing from Joe certainly dwarfs all the rest in strangeness. It’s a thought I try to push away now in the middle of the night, when everything already seems much less tolerable than it is in the daytime. Last night I closed my eyes and thought of Muriel instead: the many poses of her ears; the circus dog way she often curls her tail; how she becomes eerily still and points (though she isn’t from hunting stock) when she senses a snack-sized animal is near.
Even in less turbulent times, my final thought before falling asleep is frequently “I can’t wait to see Muriel.” After feeding her and taking her outside this morning, I unfolded a blanket and sat on the couch. She joined me, as usual, before the blanket could be arranged on my lap, curling herself into a ball and nestling against my hip. We took a half-hour nap together and got on with our day — or rather, I got on with mine. Muriel, exhausted from having slept all night, continued napping on and off until lunchtime.