If sleep was a sport, I would be the number one contender. It’s not that I’m particularly proud of my close to extreme resting skills but it is what it is. Just picture, an arena filled with thousands of fans, silently cheering the sleeping contestants on, placing bets on who they think can sleep the longest. Each contestant’s profile being displayed on the jumbotron next to a full body shot of them in deep sleep; name, age, country, mattress size, mattress type, longest recorded sleep etc.
My profile picture would be of me sleeping on my stomach, faced away from the wall, one arm underneath the pillow, sort of like extra support for my head, leg dangling at the edge of the bed just outside the covers, with my backside in a slight upward direction… to help with my… releases? You know what I mean. To date my longest recorded unnatural sleep was for three days, it was more like a coma. It was unnatural because some friends and I decided to try, for the first time, cookies of the “space” variety. The type of fun and laughter we had that Friday night was, for lack of a better phrase, out of this world. The sleep I had from that night was AMAZING!! I don’t remember the dreams I had but I’m sure it was like having a movie access pass to watch back-to-back favourites for all eternity. IT WAS EPIC!!! I later woke up on Monday night knowing that it couldn’t be Saturday morning, but damn… Monday!?
Anyway, back to the story.
I can picture being hooked up to a machine that monitors your sleep, to of course make sure that there are no irregularities. Competing with hopefuls from across the globe claiming that they are the world’s best. I would have my little fan club consisting of my mom, dad, sister, my lady, aunt and anybody who has witnessed my awesome.
As they announce each of us we would all politely yet deliberately give each other the stare down that says, very simply, “You’re going down, punk!” Then we would all take our places on a bed that is to each of our specifications and assume the position. Once the monitor indicates that we are asleep the timer would then activate. As each contestant falls asleep the crowd would cheer, but obviously in a golf type of silence that has to be commanded every 2 minutes and the type of clap that can only be executed by a queen; you know, elbows never leaving her side, hands meeting in the middle of the chest very softly, very delicately.
The commentary from the floor would go something like… “We are in the 11th hour of our International Last Man Sleeping final, and our last three finalists are still at a dead lock. Though we had some action a bit earlier in the fourth hour when America’s Billy “the dead man” Wallace scratched his crack and turned over to the other side of his bed. And in hour 9, France’s Jacques “le sommeil” (the sleep) Cailloux was twitching and moaning, I think he was experiencing a horrible nightmare but has since calmed down. South Africa’s Wanda “the knocked-out king” Sokutu seems to be going strong; a bit of flatulence here and there but nothing to be alarmed about. That’s all the news I have from the floor, back to you John.”
I mean, apart from South Africans being among the laziest people in the world, I love sleep more than I love eating, which is more than I can say for the Americans. And France is not really known for coming out tops in head to head battles ;-). All I’m saying is that I would kill it if it were a sport.
Sometimes I think I sleep to escape the world around me. To, for those moments, have my mind, body and spirit at peace. Then other times I remember the joys of that type of rest. I remember the dreams and endless possibilities.
It is probably bad for me, but so is everything not taken in the recommended doses.
– Call Me Dizzle