The Girl Who Learned To Kneel

This is about the time of night when I get so tired—to the point of nausea—and feel like I could fall into bed and sleep for fifteen hours. 9:40 PM is the precise time this feeling sets in. Just like at precisely 3:30 PM my need for coffee suddenly hits me like a ton of bricks, at which point I sometimes reward myself with a decaf but self-talk myself into believing I am slurping a syrupy shot of caffeine. But I digress.

I don’t actually get the fifteen hours of sleep I deserve because I stall…the bedtime routine looming. It’s so laborious getting ready for bed, isn’t it? The vitamins, the face washing, the examining of the face under bright and unattractive lighting, Simon always on me for the flossing. And then if it’s not Simon, it’s the random facts about flossing that pop into my mind leaving me guilt ridden. Like, apparently you can add ten years to your life just through flossing. Or it might be the other way around—you can lose ten years of life from not flossing. I’m not sure…something to do with flossing and disease prevention and life span…which is heavy right before bed.

Tonight I am feeling fortunate because we are out of floss. But I am stalling for another reason—the pounding of male bodies in erotic interlocking holds has me transfixed. Yes, that’s right, I’m watching ultimate fighting. Though I find it completely ridiculous (if they weren’t pounding so hard on each other’s faces, you might think they were spooning), I am nonetheless hooked. Such. A. Strange. Sport. I gawk. Finally there’s a winner by rear naked choke, a very awkward hold I might add. I pull myself off the couch while winner-boy prances around the ring in all of his ultimate fighting glory. I find my pillow, and prepare for a night of dreams: unwieldy wrestling and gum disease.