Up at 3 a.m.: It’s Five O’Clock Somewhere

The door to the time travel portal is jammed again. I bang my shoulder against it, hoping it will release. It doesn’t budge. I pound my fists on the cold metal door, demanding that it obey my command to let me in. Instead of the door opening, it’s my eyes that open, and I realize that I’ve been dreaming.

It’s 3 a.m., and I’m wide-awake knowing that I’m up for the long haul. I’ve been to this destination before. These early morning hours are lonely. I imagine flinging my leg ever so gently over to my husband’s side to accidentally, on purpose, wake him up. Why should I be the only one alert at this hour?

He sleeps with his mouth taped shut, a weighted blanket, and a pillow over his head. An impressive list of sleep hygiene equipment. I’m not sleeping with my husband; I’m sleeping with a mound. He’s a silent sleeper this way, and I like it. I don’t need his breathing waking me up. There’s no less than six pillows between us in our king-sized bed. The seventh one is for hitting him with if he starts to snore. He’s trained himself not to for my benefit. It only takes once for a sleeping man to be hit by a pillow to learn his lesson, if you’re curious.

It's not entirely his fault he sleeps like this. It doesn’t help that I turn the heat down low, so low that it’s basically off, and turn the ceiling fan setting to polar bear habitat. His cocoon helps him survive the long, harsh winter in Perimenopauseville.

I slide my leg over and can’t find his. Too many pillow obstacles in the way.

I call out his name, “Jay? Jay, are you up?”

But of course, he can’t hear me because he’s buried alive in blankets. I’m alone again at 3 a.m., naturally. I toss the covers aside and flip onto my back, letting the fan blow its sweet, cooling air on me.

My legs start to itch as if invisible ants are crawling under my skin. I picture them advancing two-by-two towards my brain on their quest for body dominance. I wish I had some sort of internal bug spray. No one wants ants in charge of their urine function. Too late, they made it to my noggin; now I have to use the bathroom. I haven’t had anything to drink since early evening, yet my body shifted fluids quite effectively to fill my bladder to the brim. Red (ant) alert capacity.

Speaking of marching, I heard recently that soldiers used to go into battle in the wee hours, appropriately named. It started as a surprise attack strategy when the enemy least expected it. However, after the first time, it lost its novelty on both sides, and no one was caught off guard the second time. Fool me once and all that. Waking up this early took a toll on the men, as the adrenaline and dopamine quickly wore off at this hour. Had someone realized that perimenopausal women are at their best strategically and creatively during early morning hours, military victory would have been achieved much sooner.

These are the things I think about when I’m up before the birds.

I head downstairs to use the bathroom because I don’t want to disturb Jay. It’s the least I can do.

I know what to expect once I get there. One single sheet of toilet paper dangling off a bare roll. The toilet paper always picks me to run out on me. It doesn’t matter if I’m home, on vacation, or at the office supply store. The universe has a funny sense of potty humor. Maybe in a past life they discovered I hoarded all of the loo rolls during the Spanish Flu pandemic, and this is karma. I open the cabinet door to find that we have no more stacked in there. I just knew it.

I trudge back upstairs to the hall closet to get the backup-of-the-backup TP. I have to stop for a moment at the top because my heart is racing wildly. My body didn’t get the message that it needed to do cardio when I should be sound asleep. My heart races like I ran Heartbreak Hill while carrying a refrigerator on my back. This escapade around my house is pushing my limits.

I look up to grab what I need. As I pull the toilet paper down, the neighboring laundry detergent comes down with it. Splat! The container cracks open and splashes liquid all over me. As I’m standing in dripping shock, it occurs to me that I never did complete my task in the bathroom.

My kids are old enough not to leave Legos on the floor; I’m barefoot, and that would have been tragic. I consider myself lucky that the path is clear. If I had been wearing my smartwatch, it would have been impressed with my twilight calisthenics and agility, and I could have put an early dent in my daily step count.

I peel off my liquefied nightgown on the way and get to the bathroom barely in time, slamming the door behind me. That’s when I remember that the door is broken and I’m locked in here forever. My heart sinks at the thought of having to sleep on the bathroom floor mostly naked. I pull on the knob with the same desperation as when switching the lights on and off when the power is out.

I get a dreadful sense of Déjà vu as if I’ve already lived this experience in the last hour.

It’s stuck. Stuck good.

I could cry out for help, but I know that won’t make a difference. The bed lump won’t hear me yell.

I look around the bathroom for something to help me open the door. A squirt of conditioner may be perfect enough to loosen the grip. Misery brings with it a certain level of intermediate ingenuity.

Wait one minute, is that my phone on the counter? I forgot that I tossed it there when racing into the bathroom. I’ll just call Jay. Dial right into his dreams.

From the other side of the door, I hear, “Your pajamas are on the floor here. What are you wearing?” I envision the eye roll as he adds, “Knowing you, it’s probably nothing.”

After some tinkering sounds, the door opens. I’m ecstatic to see him.

“Oh, you’re up. I hope I didn’t wake you.”