Restless in Rochester
There’s something—I don’t know, sinful, decadent, guilty, maybe—about standing naked in a dark kitchen at 4:30 in the morning eating chocolate cake. Even when you’re not depriving someone else of that same slice.
Whatever the feeling is, coupled with the sheer sensual pleasure of a large slice of triple-decker death-by-chocolate, it brought a big grin to my face and laughter to my lips.
Or, maybe it was Donna Summer.
Lemme splain.
Last night I just couldn’t sleep. I don’t know if it was taking the second cap of Cymbalta too late, the pillows getting hard and lumpy, seven years of sleeping on the same cheap futon which now has a me-sized depression in the middle, that it was too warm under the covers yet too cold when feet, shoulders and other body parts would sneak out from underneath. Could be the phase of the moon or butterflies in Brazil for all I know.
But every few weeks I have a night that goes beyond basic tossing and turning into what I refer to as “full rotisserie mode”. For what it’s worth, my spit turns counter-clockwise.
It was the kind of night where I wished there was somebody there sleeping peacefully so I could snuggle up in hope that it would rub off somehow. On the other hand, a second occupant of the bed would, just as likely, have become annoyed to the point of evicting me. Who knows? I’d like to try it sometime nonetheless.
It’s a how many angels can dance on the head of a pin thing anyway since I evicted myself to the couch around 2:30.
Different pillows didn’t help. The better futon didn’t help. Leaning against the back as a surrogate sleeping partner didn’t help. Masturbating didn’t help. That only made me want to smoke.
Coming back inside from the freezing rain I realized I’d made a terrible error. I’d been lying on the couch with my feet aimed at the door, which is very bad feng shui since they carry you out feet first upon expiration. So I rearranged everything so my feet were aimed at the desk instead. That didn’t help.
Of course, then too I could see into the kitchen—and the two big slices of chocolate cake perched atop the fridge.
Along about then, the soundtrack in my head shifted from “98.6” (Who did that song anyway?) to Donna Summer’s “I Feel Love”.
Ah! Perhaps the love-drug found in chocolate remains present in chocolate cake in sufficient quantities to induce pleasant feelings enough to drift off.
Huh. Drop the middle syllable, and it plugs nicely into the song.
Choc-late caaa-aaaa-aaaa-aake. Choc-late caaa-aaaa-aaaa-aake. Choc-late caaa-aaaa-aaaa-aake. Choc-late cake.
How about some butch-sounding guys singing a bass backgound: Frosting, frosting, frosting, frosting…
No, you wouldn’t have been able to resist either.
And no, it didn’t help me get to sleep. But it was fun, so that counts for something.
