Food for sleepless thought

I have terrible insomnia.  I'm not really sure why.  Often there are nights like the night before last, when I just couldn't shut it down until about 3:30 am even though I really, really wanted to go to sleep.  It's like my brain won't take a break.  From a creative standpoint that sounds awesome, but the reality is that it sucks and I'm bloodshot-eyed and ineffective and yawning constantly the next day.  I've never bought into the tortured artist thing anyway.

And then when I do actually sleep, there's last night and what that "sleep" brought.

I start culinary school on Monday and although I'm terribly excited about it, I've also started to kind freak out about it a bit this week.  Not in a debilitating meltdown way, but in more of an I can't believe I'm actually getting to do this thing that may change my life that I've been wanting to do for a while and now it's actually here kind of way.

So last night, as I slept fitfully (a phrase writers never tire of) my ever helpful insomniac brain came up with this nightmare scenario: I arrive for my first day of culinary school not only without my chef's jacket (a rather important piece of the uniform we were given at the orientation a few weeks ago), but I've also forgotten the notebook they gave us at orientation, where in addition to the vast importance of our uniforms, we were also impressed with the need to take notes and document like crazy.

And just for good measure, for some reason I also show up for class barefoot.  No idea how that got in there, as the required rubber-soled shoes part of the uniform was never a problem (thank you my latest pair of Nikes).

I woke up traumatized and tired.  Thanks brain, you heartless bastard you.

Years ago, my Dad informed me that I'd inherited my lousy sleep patterns from him.  He gave me an over-the-counter pill to help me sleep, supposedly so effective that I could cut the thing in half where it was scored down the middle and still achieve the desired sleepy results.  I tried it once and while it worked, I was so disturbed at how difficult it was for me to get up and go after that drugged, sleep-filled night that I never tried any sort of sleeping pill again.  There was just something creepy about the effect and how little control I had over it.

But then there's the insomnia thing, which I also can't control.  But at least I can own it, I guess.  So silver lining, sort of.

Sort of.

One of the things on my to-do list this weekend is ironing my chef's jacket, releasing it from its folded up, creased, plastic wrap enfolded newness, so that on Monday morning I'll look as professionally presentable as possible.  The importance of a clean, professional appearance was impressed upon us newbies at the orientation.

With that in mind, I just can't wait to see what horrific, fabric burning, apartment scorching scenario my brain will come up with over the next couple of nights.  Hope not.  Maybe sometimes ironing can just be ironing.

But insomnia and my overactive imagination...