What Was Your Name Again?

When one is in the belly of a run of perimenopausal insomnia, there are some endeavors that are simply not safe to endeavor.

Proper grammar and spelling, for one.

Lion taming might be another.

That thing where the magician straps a girl to a spinning wheel and flings knives at her head, that might be something that would be safest to avoid. Unless you are the girl and really, really trust the guy throwing the knives.

Ditto pair juggling flaming torches. (damn, there goes Husband’s weekend)

I suppose I should put off trying to land that 747. Or swimming with sharks. Or coherent political debate. And above all, trying to compose amusing blogs.

Because this piece isn’t going the way I planned. With an elevator that stops short of the observation deck, nothing is going to go the way that I planned and I should probably stick to “safe” activities like operating the DVD player, making snacks that don’t involve sharp implements, and signing up for the Secret Service.

I didn’t see anything in the manual about driving an hour to my massage appointment, though.

I will drive a long way, even with a pounding headache, even on four days of crummy sleep, to get a good massage.

I will probably drive too fast, and rely on a sniff of peppermint oil instead of coffee, and sing very loud with the radio.

Don’t worry. That’s what keeps me focused. And if I’m pulled over by one of New York’s Finest, I will simply burst into tears.

And I won’t have to fake it. I’m getting pretty good at that, too.

I watched “Hitch” last night and cried at the ending, for Pete’s sake.

I cried at the end of last season’s final episode of “24.” And that’s pathetic.

And if I call on you to bail me out of the PMS tank this afternoon, please bring my pillow.

And a box of tissues. Maybe two.