In my college psychology class we took a couple of class periods to talk about sleep. Everybody needs it. Sure, some people need less and some people need more, but it's essential for everyone. The funny thing is, nobody knows why.

There's all sorts of theories, some more prevalent and accepted than others. But that doesn't much matter. What matters is that everybody needs it.

Sleep and I haven't been very good friends recently. We've had our troubles over the years. There have been times when it has taken me anywhere from half an hour to three hours to fall asleep each night. Generally, it's not so bad anymore.

Round about Christmas time I started not sleeping so well. At the time I blamed not being at home and sharing a bed with my little sister. She moved, I woke up; I moved cause I was awake, she either woke up or moved to a more surfacey level of sleep and moved more.

I was expecting, once I returned home, to be able to sleep again. I still couldn't sleep. I blamed it on getting in the habit of not sleeping well and I told my body quite firmly that it should get over it and start sleeping again. It didn't.

Then I went to San Francisco for the weekend. I slept like a champ. And I've been sleeping so well ever since I nearly forgot the differences sleep and I were struggling with before my spontaneous SF trip.

I'm not sleeping again. I probably got maybe three or four hours of sleep last night and the night before. Once upon a time when I was young and spry that wouldn't have been a problem. Now I'm old and I need sleep. Lots of sleep. Ideally seven hours of sleep.

Last night I lay in bed, my eyes feeling swollen and sand-papery, my head pulsing slightly with each beat of my heart (which was in itself slightly disturbing since my resting HR seemed to be at least in the 60s instead of the dependable, sluggish, low 50s that I'm used to), leaving behind a constant, dull, delicate sort of ache. The kind of dull, delicate ache that, given enough time, could drive me mad.

As I was laying there objectively weighting the pros and cons of ridding myself of the contents of my stomach in order to reduce the ache in my belly, I decided nighttime hours are wasted on me. I ought to have been composing the next great American novel. Or perhaps hypothesizing about the neurological processes that inhibit sleep to solve sleeping problems for people the world over.

Somewhere around 3:30 I cut my losses and wandered into the kitchen for a small mug of hot chocolate (for the sleep-inducing properties of the warm milk) and put on the Legend of Bagger Vance, the best sleeping movie according to those in my family who don't have as many troubles with sleep as I do. I snuggled on the couch half-hoping that for once I would be able to fall asleep to a movie. I cut my losses again and returned to my bed a little over an hour later.

As I lay awake in my bed I put the pieces together. It's a simple logic puzzle. The kind they make you do in elementary school to test your abilities to pick out patterns and relationships.

I wasn't sleeping. During and after my crazy San Francisco trip, I was.

I'm not sleeping. [Fill in blank here]

I desperately need to take another weekend road trip

Any takers?