“Do you ever get scared that you could have Parkinson’s disease?”– Sebastian
“Not specifically Parkinson’s. But I’m not gonna lie, I’ve had my bouts with hypochondria.”– Wally
“What’s that?”– Sebastian
“That’s thinking you have diseases that you don’t really have.”– Wally
“Oh my gawd. I have that.”– Sebastian
The Switch, 2010, starring Jennifer Aniston and Jason Bateman
It is a truth universally acknowledge that TV is real life. That is why a particular episode of House, M.D. once scared me so badly.
House had a woman come into the clinic with unexplained nausea. Long story short, she was sleep walking to her ex-boyfriend’s apartment, having sex with him, and walking back to her apartment, all without waking up. The stomach pain? She was pregnant.
Obviously, this was a true story. It just sounds so true, and that is why it worries me.
There are entire blogs dedicated to people who talk in their sleep. Goodness, it’s good stuff. My sister once serenaded me with “Silent Night” in the middle of the night. We had to install an extra lock on the front door to ensure that my other sister didn’t wander off in her pajamas.
For my part, it has been documented that I send text messages in my sleep. Truly, I wake up each morning and check to see what witty things I sent to my hundreds of accquaintences. Ok, actually I just see if I incoherently replied to a text sent after about 11 pm. But it still doesn’t bode well for my physical and mental health, supposedly protected by those precious hours of rest each night.
When I wake up with bruises, I assume that I either ran into a ladder at work (most probable) or perform in B-dance battles outside of Target (less probable).
When I wake up with a sore in my nose, I assume that I have started unconsciously snorting illegal substances. On the other hand, since my conscious self has absolutely no idea where to find such illegal substances, it is possible that I instead I caught an airborne virus. Possible.
Then, last weekend, I woke up with a strange scratch on my hip.
When I say my hip, I really mean my butt, but this is a family friendly blog.
The scratch is four tiny pricks in a row like this:
My first thought was that I tried to pin my pajamas to my body. My inner seamstress, who knows how to sew a straight line using a machine and attaches a mean button, was obviously just exercising her creativity.
My second, and more plausible, thought was that I got into a REM cycle wrestling match with: a cat, a woman of ill repute with incredibly long finger nails, or a small garden rake accessorized with razor blades. I’m sure the pillow fights came first, but goose feathers don’t usually leave physical evidence of violence so I can’t really confirm or deny that.
Worried though I may be, about my imminent death due to untold numbers of terminal illnesses, I have something to cheer about.
I do, at the very least, have an active social life after dark.
Just because it doesn’t involve dropped beats and five inch heels…or full consciousness…doesn’t mean I don’t party with my bad self.
Uh huh. Uh huh. Uh huh.