Insomnia is no picnic, or so I’ve heard. I wouldn’t know, considering I’m a middle-aged woman who sleeps through the night like an infant drunk on warm milk. But my bleary-eyed friends, doom-scrolling at 3 AM, shouldn’t be envious. Because my ability to nod off at night has a not-so-pleasant flip side.
Like a tuckered-out toddler, I conk out by day, too—often unexpectedly. Think Rip Van Winkle, but instead of one 20-year nap, I do a bunch of short ones, usually at inopportune times. I blame the laws of physics. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction, so if millions of people can’t sleep, apparently it’s my job to do it for them, whether I want to or not.
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