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Waking up in strange places doesn’t always include a hangover

I had one or two topics cross my mind over the weekend that I planned to write about today, but the weekend is over now and much of it was filled with sinus medication. In other words, I have no recollection whatsoever of the hypothetical topics upon which I planned to expound. They seem to have dissolved, somehow, in my simmering consciousness, kind of like little bits of sweated onion left to cook for 6 hours in a rib-sticking beef stew. Yes, they were identifiably in there at some point, but time has sucked all the structure out of them, leaving nothing but an aromatic perfume. Of course, in the case of the onions, they become a tasty subcomponent of the overall dish. In my case, the only perfume typically used to describe my directionless ramblings is not quite so pleasantly aromatic.

Ahem. So. Having no better ideas for today, you lucky readers get an oddly random question: did you ever wake up someplace, completely unable to remember how you got there?

I ask only because the Puddinette found me kinked up on a loveseat in the basement playroom around 5 am Sunday morning. As I’ve mentioned before, she often wakes in the middle of the night to find that I’m not where I’m supposed to be. In 9 cases out of 10, I’m asleep in my recliner with the TV glowing softly at the end of the movie or previously-recorded TV show to which I drifted off. In the tenth case, I’ll be at my desk, still awake for some reason, puttering about with either work or other everyday stuff.

Yesterday morning, though, neither was the case. She woke in the stupid early hours to find me missing, and set about her normal search pattern. Honestly, I’m not sure why she does it. I’ve been told by several trustworthy individuals that spending a night in my immediate vicinity is a lot like trying to fall asleep with both the jackhammer of road work and the chainsaws of a logging crew no more than two feet away. The only difference is that workers with loud equipment usually take a couple of breaks and a lunch every 8 hours. I make an unholy amount of noise all night long, uninterrupted.

At any rate, she comes looking for me; I guess to make sure I’m not, you know, pulling an Elvis. This time she finds my chair empty, although the TV is still aglow at the end of the not-terribly entertaining movie I’d been watching hours before. She then checks the office and finds it dark and unoccupied. The basement door, however, is open and the lights are on below. She calls down to me, and I snort awake with the Mother of All Kinked Necks, since I’d apparently fallen sleep with my head resting on the arm of the loveseat, at an 84 degree angle to my shoulder. My legs were curled up so they’d fit on the small piece of furniture too, squeezed compactly enough that unfolding myself to stand up was like trying to solve a Chinese knot puzzle at the Cracker Barrel while waiting for your turn to carb-load on Chicken and Dumplings.

Both amused and perplexed, she asked me why I was downstairs, in the playroom, twisted like a human pretzel on the only piece of furniture available. I had no answer. I still have no idea how the hell I got down there. My brain does hold a vaguely fuzzy image of dropping down to rest on the thing, but I’ll never know if it’s an actual memory or something I concocted after the fact to make the whole thing seem less surreal. For now, I think I’m going to stick to my normal stand-by explanations for the otherwise inexplicable:

  • I was abducted by aliens for research purposes (again), but they apparently let the intern put me back and he screwed up the work order
  • I was staking out the neighborhood Oompa Loompa labor colony I suspect is living in our basement
  • Sudafed and beer….that’s the good stuff

Odds are I’ll never really know why I made my way to the playroom for some sleepy time in the least comfortable resting position ever. Maybe I’m just a freak, or perhaps the stress is finally getting to me. I don’t know how that could be since I don’t tend to care enough about anything to get worked up, but I suppose I could be having sympathy stress for the Puddinette. Regardless, let’s all hope I spend my nights this week in the right bed, and don’t start eating spoonfuls of mayo in my sleep. Mayo is nasty.


PS: Anyone else have stories of strange sleep behaviors? Comments are available for just that sort of thing, you know.


One comment on “Waking up in strange places doesn’t always include a hangover

  1. […] at least a 50 percent chance that my pathetic drowsiness relates somehow to waking up a human pretzel on our little loveseat in the basement Sunday morning. Somehow I need to prevent this sort of foolishness, so I think I just need to chain […]


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