Still a bit fried, part 2.

Last night I couldn't sleep at all. Maybe two hours, total and nonconsecutive. I had an elaborate Fedjur class to prepare and an hour and a half of teaching, beginning at 9:30. I considered cancelling my class and taking a sick day, even though I have never cancelled a class for sickness in twenty years, and failure to get enough sleep is not a sickness. It was an aftereffect of the car accident, however, and one could properly cancel a class for a physical injury. My leg did still hurt. But lack of sleep seemed an inadmissible reason to cancel class. Who calls in sick with insomnia?



I got the class prepared somehow and began by confessing my predicament. Adrenalin got me through at the usual energy level. Teaching some of the peskiest doctrine (reverse-Erie, Tarble's case), I seemed coherent enough to myself. After class, I went to my office to hit the wall. There was a message on the phone from the insurance company about inspecting the wreckage of my car. Two deans paid a visit to see how I was doing. I said I was feeling a bit frazzled and talked a bit about the car I'd ordered the day before. Soon enough, I accepted a ride home from Nina. We stopped at Whole Foods, where I weaved my way past banks of multicolored tulips and pyramids of oranges and cheeses and loaded up on meat, milk, salad, eggs, and red wine.



Back home, I read for a while, meaning to remain awake. I wanted to stay up until at least 9. At 4, I started to watch TiVo'd "Daily Show" from Monday night. Realizing I was nodding off, I went upstairs to lie down.



I woke up and looked at my watch. It was 5:30. Ah! I'd slept through the night, in my clothes, in my makeup, without even lowering the blinds. That's never happened. It's still dark out, and I feel great, pleased with myself that I'd slept so long, ready to have some coffee, check out the NYT, and prep my 11 am class. And I'd been looking forward to watching "Amercian Idol" last night. Now, there will be two episodes for Wednesday night.



The phone rings, and a man asks me if I would like to take a survey. I'm quite surprised. Who would do survey calls at 5:30 in the morning? "It's not a good time," I tell him. I pick up my Conlaw book and head downstairs. Wait a minute. Is it 5:30 in the morning or 5:30 at night? You can't tell from looking at the clock or from what it looks like outside or from the fact that it's news and not classical music on NPR right now. I genuinely do not know if it's 5:30 in the morning or 5:30 Tuesday night. Could it still be Tuesday? How do I find out? I open up my computer and look at the NYT homepage to see the date. It's the 25th. Tuesday night. I've only slept for an hour and a half on top of my previous night of two hours sleep, and I feel fine and ready to launch into a new day. How terribly strange! Now, I'll need to wind down, get to bed again in a few hours, and hope to create a sleepful night for myself.



How terribly odd! Time to fry up some meat not eggs, pour some wine not coffee, and settle in for an evening of "American Idol" and whatever the TiVo dragged in last night.