jack

For as long as I can remember, I've disliked sleep. It seems like the biggest waste of time there could possibly be. I've used sleep as an argument against intelligent design — not necessarily against "design," but at the very least against "intelligent": Designing a mechanism that has to be shut down for at least 1/3 of its lifespan in order to function doesn't strike me as a very good idea. Combine this with my perfectionist/workaholic tendencies and you end up with someone who goes full tilt until they just can't anymore, at which point I end up going to bed several hours early, regardless of what I'm leaving undone, because I just physically cannot stay awake any longer.

I know it's not the healthiest way to do things, but I just can't seem to help myself, and until they come up with a chemical substitute for sleep that has fewer side effects than meth or cocaine, well. . . there I am. Or, well, there I was. As we were driving home from the dentist yesterday, A. came up with a way to weaponize my perfectionism against me: Make rest a quantifiable plan/goal for me to work toward (quantifiable both so that I can be sure that I'm doing it and also so that I can know when I've done it enough and don't have to do it anymore). She managed to get me to commit to two 10-minute meditations a week along with one night a week where I don't write (as writing is the last thing I do every day, so it often delays my bedtime). She tried to get me to commit to two meditations and two nights of not writing, I tried to talk her down to two meditations and one night where I try not to write, and this is what we settled on. I'm willing to concede that it's possible that taking this additional rest will make me so much more productive in the time that I'm not resting that I won't resent the time spent resting. On the other hand, if 52 years of sleeping almost every night hasn't reconciled me to the necessity of sleeping. . .