I’m awake again.
Have been for hours.
Pacing the floors inside my home, knowing just where to step to avoid causing too much noise to wake the children or the husband.
It’s in between these slices that I’m able to find some solace.
I envy Frida Khalo’s living arrangement; to have my own house right next to my husband’s where I can escape to paint or write or hula hoop or roller skate at 2 in the morning while I listen to music and meditate on how much I probably should be sleeping and all the many reasons that I can’t.
All couples should live next to each other or at the very least have separate sleeping and dressing quarters; it should be a standard built into every home. I dream of having a tiny house to travel with my family in for a few years or even a school bus but, in all those daydreams I still somehow find my own little pieces.
I truly miss the days of just waking up, fucking my beloved, then going to cook or smoke or hula hoop or play video games. Sex is like espresso for my insomnia; it gives me the energy to be twice as productive in half the time. Now if only I had a lovely someone to make food for me in a dainty apron so I could just throw on some headphones and hula hoop for 30 while I ponder my existence and how I got to this point and where I want to head now.
Being a adult is hard and this is definitely not how I imagined it for myself. I pictured myself, in my thirties, laying in a bed surrounded by lovers, in a home that was only mine when I wanted it. I want many of those; you call it home, I call it cache. I wanted to be like 007, “The name’s Bond, Vaga Bond.”
Instead, I’m in a bed surrounded by my children while my husband snores and bumps into my feet. This bed space intrusion though is something I swear by for sleeping survival as nursing momma. I want my insomnia to be mine, damn it! Not caused because of some crying baby that I have to go retrieve from another room, getting out of bed because I have to is miserable. Co-sleeping keeps me well rested, as much as I could be, for someone who doesn’t sleep.
On the nights when I can’t get an injection of vitamin C.U.M., I am left with the freedom to be creatively irresponsible. I can make a big mess by painting or neurotically organize my paint supplies. I can burn calories by hula hooping until I can’t stand or I can attempt to achieve the same results with the help of pussy petting and porn. I can meditate, ruminate, prognosticate, integrate, and try to acclimate to what my life is or bake cookies! These moments of freedom are better than getting to pee alone.
These moments also help satiate that itch that I get. The get up and go itch that causes me to want to sell it all and move to Northern California to someplace where I can see the ocean everyday preferably on a ship so I can pick up anchor and go to Alaska and New Zealand and Scotland and Egypt.
I often wonder where other people are during this time. Friends I used to call just to chat with about bullshit. People I could always count on being the places they’d always be. Living within walking distance of my high school home doesn’t help. Only heightens that “can’t wait until I get out” feeling.
Tonight, I want crunchy fall leaves, leather trench coats, to go coffee and hand rolled cigarettes. I want hand holding and cool night breezes. I want Bon fires that everyone knows the location to and knows to show up with wood and drinks. I want walks and talks that go on for hours. Goodbyes that end with a hug and greetings that open with a kiss.
I have instead settled for a nightcap, a short post, and walking around my home naked. And now I believe, I am finally ready for bed.