Tonight I’m getting only seven hours of sleep again. I function best on eight, but that’s not what this rehearsal schedule is dictating. One more dress rehearsal and then four shows this weekend. Work during the day and with the cold coming on like the end of a vacation in Cancún, stomachaches keep my Starbucks company, the red holiday cup kind. My hair is air-drying and I’m thinking of all the mistakes I made today I can’t let go. Yeah, I’m one of those people, the annoying perfectionist ones who put one mistake up on blast in their heads until a new one is made. Obsess like a Gollum. My stomach knots up at the slightest peculiarity in thoughts, plans, or pathways. I stare back at the novel I just put down last weekend and yearn for a few drops of water, it never ends.
There are days when I really wish I could be someone else for a day. I don’t even have a particular someone else in mind, I just mean someone else. Like a freaky Friday sort of thing, only any day of the week.
My bed is the safest place for me to be. I’ve done my homework in my bed, slept in my bed, read books and magazines in my bed, nursed a stomachache in my bed, watched movies on my laptop in my bed, talked to someone on the phone upside down in my bed, jumped on my bed, and I’m sure many other things I can’t list them all. I do life in my bed. It makes me think of a character in one of my favorite children’s books who stayed all day in bed (kudos to you if you know what character I’m talking about). That’s not my end goal, but I have a glimpse into understanding that character’s life. Believe me, I never thought one day I would understand the desire to stay in bed all day, especially if you knew you are physically well and able-bodied.
But there is something about the bed that makes it a great hideout place. It’s a place where anyone can go to be still. In this fast-paced world, being still is sometimes just what I need. And when I don’t need to think about anything, I feel safe. Thus, the bed is the safest place for me to be.