I'm, Like, Soooo Busy

As we know when it comes to food choices, there's what the head believes, and what the scale says. 

The same premise works with another precious commodity: time. No one's got any, right? That's a trendy topic, like bone broth (an imminent post). 

Laura Vanderkam believed the same—and considering her schedule and family size, so did I. Yet after carefully logging her hours, she was delighted to discover otherwise ("The Busy Person's Lies").  

Despite her fourth baby and speaking engagements around the country, she wasn't being run to ground. Sure, there are busy weeks here and there, but those busy weeks are not reflective of the usual normal. 

When other people tried time-tracking, their anxieties over their supposedly neglected families and responsibilities faded. Some did find that their work was demanding more than they were willing to give, and they quit, but most were happy to learn that their lives were not overwhelmed. 

She concludes the article with the familiar message that time is precious: 

A life is lived in hours. What we do with our lives will be a function of how we spend those hours, and we get only so many.

Natalie Henderson, a pediatric I.C.U. fellow at the University of Louisville’s Kosair Children’s Hospital, tracked her time for several weeks. She found that despite her 28-hour shifts, she was sleeping more than she thought. Her service weeks were intense — 70 to 80 hours — but others were light enough that she saw she could carve out time for exercise and real breakfasts with her children. More important, though, was the reason she wanted to add these things to her life. In the pediatric I.C.U., she says, “we lose kids.” It’s a constant reminder that “time goes, no matter what you do. I’m covetous of the time I have. I want to make sure I use it more wisely.”

Life is full, and life has space. There is no contradiction here.

This past Sunday, 60 Minutes aired the story of the avalanched hotel in Italy, and the appreciation of the survivors. As one survivor realized, what should we be prioritizing? Our busy-ness? 

I think not.

How to Travel I

I, once again, sheepishly admit (or brazenly confess?) that I am a sucky traveler. The destination has to really attract me (and Miami doesn't) to tempt me to board a plane. For Israel, ah, Israel, for there I shall happily gird myself. 

Yet, weapons are needed to survive the journey. It took months of research for a week's "vacation," and I now clobber you with my helpful finds: 

1. Alaska Bear Silk Eye Mask: I have used many an eye mask, but this soft, non-shvitzy one is my favorite. It's so light that it didn't even muss my eye makeup, yet kept me in the dark.  

2. Travelrest Neck Pillow or the Comfy Commuter Neck Pillow: Overwhelmed by reviews, I bought three highly rated neck pillows and returned one (it was hard as a rock, but everyone had it strapped to their bags in the airport). The Travelrest supports my (long) neck while the foam on the sides snuggily gives. Ma preferred the Comfy Commuter, which I found to be too mushy and not supportive enough for my neck. (Ta can sleep anywhere and was content with the previously owned bean-bag version).  

3. Xenics Humidifier: Airplane air is notoriously dry, and I had been on the search of a small, desk-friendly humidifier anyway. This one is closed, although it does inevitably leak if it falls over (the carpet under my seat was soaked going and coming after knocking it over in my drugged sleep). But it is refreshing and skin-preserving. (Press the button once, and it goes on along with a night-light; press the button again to continue steam but turn off the light.)

Now it's by my desk.

4. Travel Kosher Lamp: Blessedly, this comes with an adapter for foreign plugs. Awaking at the 2 a.m. is unpleasant enough, but at least with this I don't have to blast the whole room with light to read. It's also quite convenient for Shabbos if staying in a hotel room with no zeigers programmed. 

I tote it along with me if going away locally for a Shabbos.
 
5. Dramamine: It's not only for motion sickness, folks! A lovely side-effect is intense drowsiness, to the point that two can knock me out for seven hours, at least. It's an antihistamine, as opposed to stronger sleep aids. Yet it won't provide the same knock-out results two nights in a row; there has to be a week in between, at least. Use it wisely.

Next week: How to walk off the plane like a mensch! 

How to Shut Up a Chatty Brain

Before I begin: Episode 3 is out! 

Praise the Lord, my bed is my sanctuary, as opposed to my torture chamber, as it would be for those struggling with insomnia. For them, "going to bed" is as onerous a task as, say, "going to the gym" would be for me: a dreadful fate to be avoided. 

There are some nights, however, that sleep is elusive. If there is a next-day to-do list, "the monkey mind" repeats the same information over and over. At times, while I am exhausted, I am still tense, unable to "let go," even when there is no conscious reason for my discomfort. 

After I read "The Insomnia Machine" by Pagan Kennedy, I recalled that if a shiur is playing in the car, I drift into a happy place and invariably doze off (obviously, when I'm a passenger). If on edge under my blankie, shouldn't the same premise apply? 

There came one night soon following when tossing and turning were present. Bleary-eyed, I reached for the tablet (which had kindly suggested a nightly automatic blue-light flick-off) and tapped open a shiur on torahanytime. In short order, my brain's hysteria was lulled, floating peacefully to the ebb and flow of my calculated yoga breath. I turned it off, rolled over, and slid into delicious sleep. 

Another night, I tried a TED talk, with the same results. 

On Dr. Oz, in a segment about the above, the "Sleep with Me" podcast was suggested—listen to this guy for five minutes and I was passing out, and this was midday. 

On motzei Shabbos Chol HaMoed I found myself sleepless, but there was a snoring nephew in the next bed. I don't use headphones in general, and I was gazing longingly at the tablet. I eventually risked it, moving the volume down and pressing the speaker to my ear. I embraced the machine-ka, soothed by Pico Iyer and whatever the heck he was reasonably talking about. 

   

TGIF

• Do we really need to sleep 7 hours a night? (Wow, do I have a backlog of articles);

• Wary online daters seek background checks;

• "Why 'Cool' Is Still Cool" (we no longer use "heavy" the way Marty does in Back to the Future); and

Be Careful What You Wish For

My bedroom windows face full east. This poses a wee bit of a problem in the spring and summer months, as my eyelids are forced open at approximately 5 a.m., when blaring sun rattles me awake. 

I concocted a means to block the light with a McGyver-esque contraption composed of 3M hooks, tent poles, and blackout curtains I purchased on Amazon. Yet no matter how I drape them, one beam manages to pierce through. 

Feeling quite pushed to the limit after a number of nights of hindered rest, I decided, what the heck. After all, enough morahs insisted you could ask Hashem for anything, even new shoes. 

I blubbered, "Hashem, You know me. If I don't get the right amount of sleep, I'm not very pleasant to be around. If You could be so kind, and help me out, so that I can stay asleep until close to 6, I would be very grateful. Thank you." 

I dozed off, confident my plea was heard. 

I was then coaxed into consciousness by a muffled thump. I slowly ascended to the surface, blinking drowsily. Wow, did I make it until 6? My hand patted about for the clock. 

1:26, the red digits gleamed.

What? 

I looked about the room. Something wasn't right. Wait, where did my shades go? 

The 3M hooks had called it quits, and the bright streetlamp shone inwards. 

Look, I soothed myself. Hashem has His ways. Maybe this is the means to recalibrating your internal alarm. You'll see! 

I couldn't fall asleep. I had awoken bright-eyed to seize the day, not muzzily enough to slumber yet again. I read. I did yoga. I did deep-breathing. 

Eventually, almost nearly as soon as I had to get up, I managed to drift off. 

My personal message from this? The Eibishter wacking me upside the head for being a wuss. 

Sleep, the Magic Drug

I'm serious about sleep. I need it the way an infant does, and I cry if I don't get it, the way an infant does. Every evening, I slowly power down like an obsolete computer, complete with checklist. No liquids past 7:30. TV off at 9. 15-30 minutes of reading, in dim, non-stimulating lighting. 

I can then reboot to greet the new day early and cheerfully.

Ergo, I am always a tad baffled when conversing with those who sleep in short, casual sequences: typically, guys. Many, many a date has told me these exact words: "Sleep? Five hours, that's all I need." Uh-huuuuuh. 

I couldn't help but think of these fellows when perusing an interview of Arianna Huffington and Kobe Bryant.

Philip Galenes (interviewer): Next up: Sleep. How much do you get?

KB: I’ve grown. I used to get by on three or four hours a night. I have a hard time shutting off my brain. But I’ve evolved. I’m up to six to eight hours now.

PG: What changed?

KB: Growing up and understanding the importance of shutting down and unwinding.

AH: Which is huge in a culture where people brag about how little sleep they get, like a macho thing: “Oh, I only need four hours.” And it coincides with the new science about the connections between sleep and health, cleaning out the toxins of the day, the connection between sleep deprivation and Alzheimer’s.

PG: Sounds like a miracle drug.

AH: But I was one of the delusional ones. It wasn’t until my wake-up call of collapsing from exhaustion in 2007 that I started prioritizing sleep.

PG: Any sleep rituals?

AH: My transition is a hot bath and absolutely no devices. All phones and computers are escorted out of my bedroom at least an hour before bed. And real books that have nothing to do with work.

Getting too little sleep results in . . . well, death, new studies are showing. Our bodies and minds need it. Claiming to be above sleep is just macho posturing. Macho posturing rarely ends well. 

I've heard from a number of people how they suffer from insomnia and are simply bad sleepers, but when I ask them what their sleep ritual is, they have none. Makeup doesn't just happen, healthy diets doesn't just happen, being fit doesn't just happen, and sleep doesn't just happen. There's even a term for it: sleep hygiene. If there is a nightly protocol, it works, studies also show.

Now how attractive is that?

Pack away anything with a screen, read or meditate to clear the mind, 3 mg of melatonin prior can also help, and go to bed and get up the same time.

It's okay. You can still be cool and sleep seven hours a night. 

Where Art Thou

I had arrived home from the date rather fakoched. I already knew I didn't want to see him again, but was calculating if I could set him up with a family friend. 

I lay in bed, as the clock ticked past midnight, all too awake. I had been yawning vociferously on the tail end of the evening, so I was frustrated by this sleep-depriving tension. The disappointment of yet another failed outing had tensed my muscles and raised my blood pressure.

That evil little voice that pops up at the most inconvenient of moments was chirping: "So, another date gone, and nothing to show for it. When will this be over, huh? When will this second-guessing, hair-pulling, time be put to rest? What will become of you? Will anything change?" 

I tried using my methods I learned to sleep-relax; deep, rhythmic breathing, the repetition of a name or mantra (currently "Andrew Weil"). While it usually worked for me before, my body was still stiff and unwilling to release. 

Suddenly, an unbidden, yet welcome thought pinged: The Eibishter isn't against me. He is with me.

Like a popped balloon, the anxiety drained out, allowing me to sink cozily into the bedding. I was finally drowsy, and repeated to myself only three more times before I drifted off: 

"The Eibishter is with me."

  

Battle of the Bulge: Go to Sleep

Sleep is a wonder. In that time when one visualizes themselves, say, showing up for one's own wedding but don't know who one's own chassan is (yes, I have dreamed that) the body is, in essence, regenerating itself, not unlike the Borg. 

The mind and the body is healed through sleep. It is an amazing concept, how when we power down our systems are able to reboot in better working order than before. I always say that the reason for my above-average height is because I was probably the only teenager getting my quota for the night; adolescents need 8.5 to 9+ hours.

Sleep requirements among adults differ depending on the individual; anywhere between 7 to 9 hours. I get about 8 a night; my memory foam mattress pad and blackout shades make it much easier than it used to be. I work my schedule around sleep; I prioritize it, since I know I am pretty much useless if I don't get my nightly quota. 

While I may sometimes get mocked for my sleeping obsession, the benefits outweigh (no pun intended) the scorn. Since, among other things, sleep deprivation can really raise weight gain. 

One theory is that the hormones that give the feelings of fullness and satisfaction are lowered when the body is sleep deprived, so on days following little shut-eye one may eat anything that is not glued down yet still feel hungry.

For those who set their alarms early so they can go to the gym? I have heard it said that one should rather sleep in instead. In my own case, when the sun starts rising earlier and manages to peak around my blackout curtains, I have been rather sleep-deprived. Guess what? My scale reflects that.

Via emedicalteam.com

So go to bed on time—every night—and program your kids that poking you in the eye at 4 am is not okay. Mommy has to keep her girlish figure.     

I Shall Vanquish Thee!

Mustfallasleepmustfallasleepmustfallasleeeeeeeeep . . .  

Obviously, I wasn't falling asleep. 

I don't operate well under pressure. My cousin's wedding, complete with Shabbos Sheva Brachos (and lechtzin was good and late, by my standards) was nigh. Additionally, Ma had succumbed to a flu-like illness that was making its merry rounds, having flattened uncles, aunts, and cousins; I could tell it had its eye on me. 

Ta and I warily circled her with shirts pulled over our noses, but I feared the worst. Whenever my sleep has not been at its best, my immune system commits hari-kari, and in waltzes, unchallenged, various bacteria and viruses, delicately stepping over the inert corpses of my white blood cells. An effortless coup, if there ever was one; I should just rename my immune system the Vichy government. I have attempted to surreptitiously toot my nose during the maelstrom of sheva brachos speeches more than once. 

I needed to bring in the big-gun mercenaries. 

I had a method—drug-assisted nights, elderberry, neti, and my new discovery, raw garlic. After a failed attempt at valerian root, time was running short. The wedding was that night, and I had—gulp—a tickle in the back of my throat. Like Ma had had. 

For the last month or so I had been religious about dosing myself with raw garlic, which meant my morning commute was rather close-mouthed. Taking it more than once a day in order to keep in tip-top shape would leave me a social pariah, although it must be better than hacking and wheezing. 

There is enough internet babble about the immune benefits of garlic (anti-baterial, anti-viral, anti-fungal, etc. In a study, it was found to be 100 times more effective than antibiotics in treating food-borne illnesses) so I simply had to hit upon a better method of consumption. This option turned out to be the most painless and the least stinky of breath.

Unlike other medications, the body doesn't adapt to the benefits; the garlic defends indefinitely. 

Raw Garlic Supplement for Cold, Flu, and Everything Else Prevention

1) Mince a raw garlic clove. It must be raw, not frozen or pre-diced.  (The easiest way to get the skin off is to wack the clove with a wide-bladed knife, then mince.)

2) Let it "breathe" for a minimum of five minutes, no more than a half hour. This allows the immune-boosting components to manifest; but don't wait too long since eventually they diminish. 

3) Mix with a spoonful of honey. (I'm not really a fan of honey, but I purchased this one and I really like the flavor. Raw honey has anti-bacterial and anti-allergy properties as well.) 

4) Try to get it all on the spoon, and swallow it down in one go. The honey helps coat the potency of the garlic on the way down, so no serious tearing or gasping, and no garlic breath either!

5) Keep a banana on standby. Sometimes, when the garlic is at optimum potency (10-15 minutes of airing) even the honey isn't enough to prevent a "HOOOOO!" response. Gulp the garlic-honey and follow with the banana. 
 

I took a "dose" twice a day while my sleep was in shreds and I shared a roof with Typhoid Ma; since then, I take it once a day. While I usually spend my winters being attacked by every minor fever and cold, since I have been taking it . . . well, that little tickle at the back of the throat just stayed a little tickle at the back of the throat, until it quietly faded away.  

During the wedding itself, the haggard zombies of the flu victims surrounded me, but I feared none. At the Shabbos Sheva Brachos I was actually sneezed directly upon by one, and shared a fork with a niece who began suspiciously coughing just after, but I sailed through the airborne pathogens unassailed. Perhaps because breakfast, lunch, and dinner were followed with my "medicine"? 

I shared my divine discovery with as many as I could, but few heeded my call. Fine, sneeze then, see if I care.

I have garlic on my side.         

Decontaminate While Dreaming

Ironically, I am writing this while my sleep withdrawal is at such a point that I am chugging raw garlic and crystallized ginger in a desperate attempt to fend off the inevitable cold that accompanies my insufficient rest. 

Sleep is a mysterious being, especially taking in evolutionary imperative to survive. Sleep, which leaves us at a defenseless disadvantage, must have a very important purpose. Whatever benefits that have been discovered until now doesn't seem to quite justify the possibility of getting eaten; Maria Konnikova (one of my new favorite contributors to the "Sunday Review") presents a new theory. 

"Goodnight. Sleep Clean": You know how we always say that dreams are the brain's way of working out matters that were pushed mentally aside during the day? That's the software aspect. But there is also the hardware, chemically speaking. 

Recall what happens to your body during exercise. You start off full of energy, but soon enough your breathing turns uneven, your muscles tire, and your stamina runs its course. What’s happening internally is that your body isn’t able to deliver oxygen quickly enough to each muscle that needs it and instead creates needed energy anaerobically. And while that process allows you to keep on going, a side effect is the accumulation of toxic byproducts in your muscle cells. Those byproducts are cleared out by the body’s lymphatic system, allowing you to resume normal function without any permanent damage.

The lymphatic system serves as the body’s custodian: Whenever waste is formed, it sweeps it clean. The brain, however, is outside its reach — despite the fact that your brain uses up about 20 percent of your body’s energy. How, then, does its waste — like beta-amyloid, a protein associated with Alzheimer’s disease — get cleared? What happens to all the wrappers and leftovers that litter the room after any mental workout?

“Think about a fish tank,” says Dr. Nedergaard. “If you have a tank and no filter, the fish will eventually die. So, how do the brain cells get rid of their waste? Where is their filter?”

Cool, huh? 

The Star Trek: The Next Generation episode, "Night Terrors," wasn't so off base (the entire crew is mysteriously robbed of R.E.M. sleep, which makes another ship kill each other after hallucinations drive them mad).

But the current state of snoring affairs is pretty bleak. With glowing technology, sleep doesn't get priority, and it is vital, on so many levels. 

At the extreme end, the result could be the acceleration of neurodegenerative diseases like Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s. While we don’t know whether sleep loss causes the disease, or the disease itself leads to sleep loss — what Dr. Veasey calls a “classic chicken-and-egg” problem — we do know that the two are closely connected. Along with the sleep disturbances that characterize neurodegenerative diseases, there is a buildup of the types of proteins that the glymphatic system normally clears out during regular sleep, like beta-amyloids and tau, both associated with Alzheimer’s and other types of dementia.

Shiver.

The are some very, very, very blessed individuals (like my father, brother, and sister) who can lay down and pass out almost immediately, so for them, sleep deprivation isn't such a stressful issue ("I was up for five minutes in the night! Imagine!" Oh, boo-hoo.) But for many of us, sleep doesn't just happen, and should take note of what personal criteria have to be met to ensure dozing off. 

Screens, whether they be television, computer, or smartphone, emit what is known as "blue light," a wavelength that toys with the chemical mechanics of sleep, and should be shunned past a certain time (in my case, no exposure past 9. On Friday nights I fall asleep a lot quicker, and I think it is because I haven't been near blue light since early afternoon). 

NOOOOOOO!

As Pesach-time approaches, remember that even the brain needs a proper clean-out, and treat yourself to an early tuck-in.

    

Zeldies!

Macklemore in his Batman Zeldy

When the kinfauna began to arrive with steady regularity, the closets had to be stocked with emergency attire, and zeldies rule the day.

They are known by many names; footed onesie, footie, footed pajamas, sleepers, one-piece p.j.s, etc. We call them zeldies because when Luke was a rambunctious kiddie in the bungalow colony, the little girl he always ran around with, Zeldy, wore them exclusively. He called the sleepers "zeldies" by association, and the term stuck. Even the in-laws Orgiana and Beru, along with the kiddies, call them "zeldies."

Young 'uns, as we know, can be restless sleepers. They toss, they turn, they flail. The blanket usually can't keep up. One thing is for sure—sleep is deeper when the room is colder as opposed to warmer, but at the same time the child should not be exposed to the chilliness. 

Enter the zeldy! Layered atop a thinner pajama, children remain toasty from the neck to the tippy toes.

Great also for Succos-time, when bulky coats take up space in the not-so-roomy of huts. They provide streamlined warmth. 

The closets in the house are bursting with options, from infant to age 14 (they were being practically given away at Target; Ma couldn't resist).   

"I wanna zeldeeeee!"

Can do. 

There is photographic proof that I used to live in one, but lately I haven't found them personally appealing. But after seeing Macklemore in a Batman zeldy . . .

 

Ooh, maybe I'll get me one.

Shabbos Lamps: Best Thing Since Sliced Bread

I need to read before I go to sleep. By "need," I mean I won't be able to doze off unless my eyes have scanned words of some sort. Shabbosim, of course, would make that a tad tricky, and usually I would lie on the floor in front of the bathroom door with a pillow. 

Then these blissfully divine Kosher Lamps were available. Goodness me, my life was changed forever, now that I can finally read in the comfort of my own bed on a Friday night. O joy!

But then, for the weekday, I found myself in no hurry to put back my regular lamp that has been with me since I was six. 

I had heard that studies show that artificial light decreases the melatonin hormone, which is fundamental for sleep. My usual lamp would fill the whole room with light; with the Shabbos lamp I can adjust it to shine only a crack of light directly on my book. I think it has helped with my sleep. 

I have become so attached that when I went to my brother for Succos, I took along the little fellow. Except Owen already had one ready and waiting.

GO TO BED!!!

My nighttime routine is sacrosanct. 

I can't watch television past 9, since the blue light stimulation keeps me up. After my tooth- and skin-care regimens, I lay down with a book and read by a dim light sufficient to see the words but not illuminate my room, since synthetic light suppresses melatonin, the sleep hormone. Providing I am not stressed about anything (dating, posts that need rephrasing, replayed conversation from the day), I can doze off reliably by 10.

If I make it to when my alarm buzzes at 6 is another story, but now with the later sunrises I'm in a good place. But even then, I get sleep deprived from time to time. 

There are some who can seize the day without sufficient rest. If I haven't slept, I tell the day to stuff it. 

Jane Brody's article, "Cheating Ourselves of Sleep," has the scary message of "harming ourselves with our eyes wide open." There is a veritable laundry list of illnesses spawned by sleep deprivation, longer than the side effects for prescription nasal spray. I can't even tell it over, there are so many. Read it at your own risk of bedtime.

Pretty much every aspect of the body is hit when shut-eye isn't a priority. 

 

Whenever the kiddies visit, I have reasons beyond my desire to finish a sentence when I tuck them in earlier than their scheduled bedtimes. My jet-lagged niece fell asleep this past Shabbos while I read a book (score!) and stayed so for fourteen hours. She was beyond adorable the next day, too. 

 

People have to diagnose themselves when it comes to the type of sleeper they are. Even if I come home late from a wedding, I can't fall asleep unless I read first to slow down my brain, while my brother Owen can simply lay down on his back and not move until morning. In general. I want to hurt him.

Time and awareness is needed to get a good night's sleep, for most. Come to know what individual needs the brain has for optimal dozing off. Keep in mind a steady sleep schedule is vital (go to bed the same time every night); it's often about conditioning. 

Sheldon like to be sung "Soft Kitty."

I Will Break You

While I was trying to do my nails, my nose kept running. In consideration for the still-damp polish, I grasped a tissue between my wrists. 

Then dawning realization. No, not a cold. Not now. 

It was the eve of my nephew's bar mitzvah Shabbos. I can't have sneezing and coughing and disturbed nights! 

Red alert!  Attack mode activated! 

First: Neti. I grimly washed out my sinuses. 

Second: Elderberry. I popped three. 

Third: Nyquil. I know the only way I can successfully fight off a cold is with sleep. I gulped down a cupful at 8 p.m., knowing it must have near twelve hours to work its drugged effects out of my system.

Fourth: Go to bed. Thanks to the lovely opiates now coursing through my bloodstream, I was successfully unconscious in record time. 

Fifth: Linger in bed. After 8+ solid hours of sleep (I don't believe I moved at all) I refrained from hopping out at 6, when I usually do, instead rested a bit more. The body has an amazing ability to heal itself, but it requires rest to do so. I lay happily huddled beneath the blankets, visualizing white blood cells nuking the cold virus.

I arose, sniffle-free, and was able to party that evening with nary a tissue in sight. Success!

The months passed. A bare month following a cold, I began to suspiciously sneeze by my office desk. I was adamant: No, I just had a cold. I won't, I refuse, to put up with another one. 

I scoured the wonderful internet, and came across this: Raw garlic. 

Nothing to it, Google burbled. Just chop it up and swallow.

Uh-huuuuuh. 

Well, potentially diseased people cannot be particular. I might suggest, however, not to try it on an empty stomach. 

I minced a clove, poured some warm soup on top, and manfully chugged. 

Hoooooo boy. 

I was aware that I had a stomach, that's for sure. No event that night, thankfully, considering the garlic breath. 

But, the next morning, my symptoms were gone, although my belly still twinged.

A few weeks later, the drippy nose came back. Come on! 

I tried the raw garlic with some yogurt, like someone recommended online. Big mistake; I ran to the bathroom in fear I was going to hurl. 

The drippy nose didn't go away, but it didn't get any worse. I dosed myself again that night, but I tried something else. 

I cooked a potato, drizzled it in oil, and mashed in the raw garlic. (Perhaps I should mention that I am a serious potato lover.)

Via simplyrecipes.com

Sooooooo yummy! 

I had gone to sleep that night with serious garlic breath, with my throat beginning to twinge. Yet by morning, while my throat and glands felt swollen, they didn't hurt. My nose ceased to drip, being replaced by puffy nasal passages, which thankfully did not leak. 

Another garlic potato for breakfast! Mmm mmm mmm.

I think were it not for that garlic, my day would have been terrible. My body felt heavy and achy, my throat thick, my nasal passages all swelled up. But my head and throat did not hurt. I was able to function at work. 

Dinner? Garlic potato!

Breakfast? Garlic potato! 

I was obviously over the worst by the following day; I was able to walk without feeling wobbly, and my nose was non-drippy (I was still practicing neti, and dosing myself with elderberry). 

I felt so smug with this delicious boosting-of-immunity discovery, but quite obviously I am unoriginal. 
 
Since my immune system seems to be compromised due to my nervous tendencies, it I must partake of regular garlic potatoes to keep me well (mmm). Flu season approaches, after all.

To Live Life

I appreciatively inhale the sensuous aromas of my simmering lunch. With sautéed onion as a base, I had added mushrooms, broccoli, sweet potato, frozen peas, kale, then dusted with garlic powder and black pepper. 

A rapturous moan purrs from my throat as I languorously chew a biteful of this simple yet divine composition of vegetation. 

"What are you eating?" she asks. I manage to crack an eyelid, interrupted from this delightful meal, and I dreamily inform her. 

"Vegetables?" she sniffs. "Rabbit food? Don't you ever live?" 

I blink in disbelief. Um, do I look miserable to her? 

"Well," she concedes, "it does smell pretty good . . ." 

When my folks were going out of town for a week, he asks, "So, are you going to have any wild parties?" 

"No," I reply happily. "I'm going to cook myself a little supper, watch The Big Bang Theory reruns, read a bit, then go to sleep by 9:30." 

"You have to get a life." 

"Uh, what exactly did your weekend look like?" 

"This isn't about me!" 

How to "live life"; I get speeches about it all the time. Unsolicited. I don't live life because I don't drink excessively, eat out regularly, or stay up until 3 a.m. 

I can't protest too much, since people think, well, that I'm protesting too much. But—

I don't think it is considered "living" to make poor eating choices while smug in the insistence that food brimming with health benefits tastes like grass. It doesn't. I am not deprived nor suffering in my pursuit of responsible menu-ness; I eat deliciously yet wholesomely (never mind cheaply) every day, and feel the better for it. 

I don't have to shlep around ten extra pounds in water weight, never mind whatever else in fat. I used to be heavier, so I know what it is like and I would prefer not to gain it back. Wheezing during the slightest exertion doesn't sound like fun to me.

As a self-diagnosed introvert, I do not befriend every lamppost. I have criteria for friendships, and quite frankly my tolerance has a limit. It is not my idea of a good time to hang out until the dead of night with people I have nothing in common with. I don't like it. I don't enjoy it. Telling me that it is the only way to "live" is a fallacy of logic.

There are billions of people roaming this planet, and guess what? Not everybody is the same. I was born with an inbred love of the middle path, devoid of extremes, as for every excess indulged there is the swinging pendulum of payback. 

Alcohol? Hangover. Deep-fried yummies? Cholesterol. Late-night partying? Exhaustion.

I live—yes, live—a life of stability and predictability. I love it. Don't cast aspersions on my life—my life. My choices are no less valid than yours. I shouldn't have to defend myself that, to me, crawling out of bed with a ringing headache due to lack of rest doesn't mean I "lived life" the night before. What about now? Is this whimpering on the way to work "living"?

Occasionally I will stray from my path and eat out with a good friend. I will blithely dance at a wedding of someone I feel close to until (gasp!) midnight. I know while I am doing it that there is a price to pay, but I am aware that in these unique and non-constant situations, it is worth it. But not all the time, every single moment of every day.
  

I reside with my parents, I don't go out past 8, I consume mostly fruits and vegetables, and I can't stand liquor. 

And I live life.

Battle of the Bulge: Lullaby and Good Night

Quite simply, if one sleeps less, one eats more, and not the good stuff. So go to bed instead of going to the gym.

Gei Shlufen

I take my sleep very seriously. It just doesn't happen. No tv past 9, at least 30 minutes of reading, dim lighting, pillow like so, loving my new position of laying on my right with my head facing up. It seems to be working. 

But then to awaken at 3? 

DOOM. 

But that feeling of terror is spitting in the eye of nature. 

I had read elsewhere how the current sleep premise of 8 solid hours is a new being, and this article reminded me.

See, before there was electricity and many avenues for artificial light, there were candles. But candles were expensive, and only the wealthy could afford to burn them at night. So what did everyone do? They went to bed when it got dark out. 

Sleeping Peasant by Zinaida Serebriakova

That sleep cycle, since it was so long, was in shifts of two. One would wake up in the middle of the night, and do some deep thinking, or potter about, pretty much relaxing. Then they would go back to sleep. 

Us techies freak out if we wake up in the night, running to the doctor to prescribe zombie-pills since being up at 2 am is unnatural. Right? Wrong.

Studies were done were the subjects were deprived of artificial light, and in no time their sleep pattern reverted to that of our ancestors. 

Instead of being expected to squeeze all of our productivity from 8 hours in bed, daytime naps should be permissible. Google, for instance, allows their employees a little shloof during the day, as do companies in China. 

Maybe that's why those ads for "Five Hour Energy" gets on my nerves. They need good ol' fashioned naptime, not a shot of caffeine.     

O Sunshine

It's hard being a morning person. One wakes up at dawn, refreshed and ready to party, and then there is no one to play with. 

A guy called up to schedule a date. 

"So how about 8 a.m. on Sunday morning?" 

I was so excited. "Sure!" I burbled with glee. 

"Um, I was joking . . ." 

Oh. 

I am surrounded by night creatures who surface with the advent of the dark, whilst I, the morning robin, nests herself into bed. 

"Are you interested in a self-defense class?" 

"Sounds cool! When is it?" 

"Tuesday nights at 9." 

"Sorry, no can do." 

It's hard enough being a lonely early bird. Try explaining it. 

"What is wrong with you?" 

How do I describe the willies that take me over when the evening creeps out? The fantasy that abominables lurk behind bushes? Also that I am dead tired by 10 o' clock since I've been up before 6? 

I shrug helplessly instead. 

FB bombards me with photos of contemporaries basking in the night life. Doesn't anyone go out for breakfast anymore? 

I've noticed how some teenagers force themselves to become night people. My young cousin is still pottering about the house close to midnight despite the fact she has nothing to do, since high school "rules" dictate late hours. My high school tried that on me, but I held firm to my principles. 

"Don't call her house past 9! Because she'll be asleep!" they would laugh hysterically.

Ha ha, very funny. You know what is also funny? Sleep deprivation during formative years probably led to your stunted growth. What a hoot.

I found one sympathetic soul who understands what I'm going through. "When I was dating," she told me, "I told the guys I can only do motzei Shabbos or Sunday. I know myself; I couldn't function if I had a date on weeknights. One guy even started yelling at me! We never ended up going out." 

By the way, she's long married. Her children considerately tuck her in. 

We aren't weird, just different. Can you understand that? We didn't choose to be this way, having alternate time zones to the rest of you. 

We just ask for a little kindness and understanding. 

Not A Cloud, But Darn Close

Sleeping used to involve a level of steps. 

I could only remain on either my left side or on my back. I can only fall asleep on my right side, see, and if I rolled too soon there than I wouldn't be able to fall asleep, since I can only do that when already dozing off. Then I would have to make sure to tip myself over the right side, since on my left side or on my back I would just remain in a state of suspended animation, not actual sleep.  

It's simple when one gets used to it. 

I began to notice that I was sleeping better in practically every other bed, including the ones that fold out of a sofa. Meaning, that my regular bed should cause me such problems is not normal. 

The few times I dared to sit on others' memory foam mattresses I nearly wept in comfort. Not willing to invest in an entire one, I searched for a mattress pad; my mattress itself is still in good condition.  

And found one that is really loved: Sleep Studio 2" Visco2 Ventilated Mattress Enhancer. I bought it, waited eagerly in the doorway and nearly did a cartwheel when it arrived. 

The hype is definitely worth it.  

I can lay down now on my right side without torpedoing my chances of sleep. I can remain in the same position for eight hours and I won't ache in the morning. My blankets remain perfectly tucked around me, instead of my flailing them on the floor whilst tossing and turning. 

I look forward now to the night, when I slide under the covers and unintentionally go "Aaaaaaaah." 

Now, on nights when the kinfauna (tips to Bad4) invade, it is not a surprise to walk into my bedroom to find my niece in my bed. 

"Get out!" 

She grumbles as she moves into the other spare bed, and I crawl into mine.  

"Aaaaaaaah." 

*Be aware that the mattress pad has a distinct smell of mint after unpacking it. That dissipates after a few days.