I sleepwalk.
Yes, you read that correctly.
I, a certified crutch-toting, walker-using, scooter-driving, board-certified cripple, somehow walk in my sleep.
And that's not all. Apparently I take somnambulism to a whole new level by adding words and actions. I don't just sleep walk: I sleep converse. I sleep do stuff. I've lost count of the number of times I've fallen asleep in bed and woken up somewhere else entirely. Then there's the whole, "Why is there a gallon of milk in the bathtub and a loofah in the fridge?" deal.
The crowning glory of my unconscious nighttime activities came in early summer of 2008, when I rose from bed one night, packed an overnight bag containing my toothbrush, my hairbrush, my shaving razor, and every clean pair of socks I owned, put it in the closet, shut the door, and then calmly crawled into bed again and knew nothing about what had transpired.
When I woke up the following morning to get ready for work (I worked at Weis at the time) all my stuff was gone. These days I'd suspect the NSA, but at the time I had a different theory:
Thank hordes of pantheons I worked at a supermarket: I was able to go in early and buy a toothbrush and comb to tame my tangled tresses and dispense of the dreaded Morning Breath. I had to go sockless that day and hope no one smelled my sweaty feet inside their standard-issue black sneakers. Later that night as I was preparing for bed, I opened the closet and there sat my overnight bag, stuffed to the brim with clean socks.
But how did I do it?
Sleepwalking, sleep talking, and even sleep "doing stuff" is not that uncommon; people do these things rather frequently, actually. Somnambulism involves a sort of disconnect in brain circuitry, temporarily disabling the process that keeps sleepers in a state of semi-paralysis -- and, as it follows, in bed. When my brother was 13, he picked up a wallet that had $50 in it that he'd saved by mowing lawns, walked outside, opened the door in the face of the chimney, put the wallet inside, shut the door and went back to bed. He searched high and low for that wallet for weeks on end, only recovering it in late October when our father cleaned the chimney in preparation for winter fires in the wood stove.
Our father, a trucker, often mumbled about mile markers and truck stop food in his sleep, and my mother's sister Teena will answer anything you ask her when she's in the right sleep stage. She once confessed to playing hooky from school by holding a thermometer up to a light bulb to feign a fever. Nocturnal ramblings of all sorts are programmed into my being.
The talking I can understand. Talking requires no legwork or balance, just the ability to speak, which I definitely possess. (I'm kind of a motormouth, actually.) But walking? Putting one foot in front of the other and remaining upright while unconscious? I can barely do that when I'm awake! I'm averaging two falls per day right now. DAY. When I'm AWAKE.
I have a few theories:
1. I use my crutches, at least some of the time.
The brain, it would seem, is quick on the uptake even when it's in Sleep mode. If I can pack a bag in my sleep, I can use a crutch in my sleep. It makes sense. I know this theory doesn't always hold true, though: I woke up one night because I stepped on an Allen wrench that escaped from the toolbox like some home repair version of "Toy Story," and I definitely wasn't holding any mobility aids.
2. I fall, but it doesn't wake me.
I'm so accustomed to gravity working really, really well for me that I can often hit the ground without interrupting the flow of a conversation I'm in. I make contact, I roll over, and I keep talking. (Like I said, I'm a motormouth.) I was once at a church service back in Evansville as a member of the choir, and I took a header during the processional and didn't stop singing. It is entirely feasible that I fall whilst midnight roaming and just stay put. After all, I can't think of a better explanation for waking up on the kitchen floor. I doubt I'd just waltz in and curl up on the tile, underneath which is the concrete, which is ungodly uncomfortable.
3. I crawl.
I do crawl sometimes when I'm awake, more often these days because I can't keep my balance as a malformed biped whose muscles and joints age at the speed of Jeff Gordon driving the Indy 500. You can't body slam the floor if you're already on it, right? I could do some sleep-crawling, sure.(I wonder how you'd express that in Latin.)
But my fourth and final theory is by far my favorite:
4. I am a superhero.
Think it over: Charles Xavier's X Men have all kinds of wonky powers. So do the Fantastic Four and Miss Peregrine's peculiar kids-that-aren't-kids. And the chicks from "Charmed". And Sam and Dean Winchester. And Sandra Bullock in "Practical Magic". And ...
So why not me? By day a cripple, doomed to a life of clumsiness and repeated violent liaisons with floors and furniture; at night a force of strength and stealth who uses my power for the greater good, as served by putting the milk jug in the bathtub and the loofah on the top shelf of the refrigerator. Tuckered Tif, sleepwalking to the rescue.
Someone might have needed the socks in that bag.
Always be prepared.
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