To some, love is a drug. To others, it’s television, blackberries, chocolate or percocet. My preferred choice of substance is of a different kind – and the proof is in today’s pudding.
I was looking forward to the weekly restorative yoga class that I’ve rejoined. After a bit of lunch, I was walking about the house when I was jolted out of my semblance of normalcy by a one-two punch o’ pain. Right where it counts: from my sacrum down my leg. I limped up the stairs, craving the soothing horizontal-ness of my bed.
Feeling a sudden chill sweep over me, I grabbed a wool blanket from the cupboard on the way to my room, crumpled onto my bed and curled up into something fetal-looking.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spied the pill box. It was beyond arm’s reach, but I swore, under my breath, that if this devil didn’t do it its dirty work quickly and subside, I would have no choice but to lunge for the meds. To heck with my aversion to drugs. I was writhing in a swelling ocean of pain and (darn it!) just wanted to make it to my yoga class!
Famous last wishes…
Last I think I heard was a vacuum whooshing down the hall. Then a voice trailing off nearby. Then the beep-beep of a van reversing in the park outside. Or maybe I was already in a semi-hallucinatory state. Regardless. It must have been the fatigue-inducing deal-making with the drug-devil that knocked me out.
Next thing I knew, two hours had disappeared from my day, I’d missed my yoga class and felt like I’d slept through an entire night cycle. Best of all (ta-da!), the pain had subsided. For now. Thanks, above all, to the magical mystery of sleep.
So, dear Lucy, keep your diamonds and keep your sky. Bring on the ZZZZZs because I’ll peel back a patch o’ sleep over the Oxys and Fents anytime.