A few weeks ago I fell asleep during a movie, only to wake up at the end, and replying to my daughter’s question of whether I enjoyed it or not, “Yes, it was good.”

How would I know though, really?  I’d slept through the middle, with only bookends of awareness at the beginning, and the ending. 

So I snuck on Netflix and rewatched it the next day. 

Yes, it was good, especially the details I missed, which only made the ending that much better. 

Now I can converse about the particularities and not give vague generalities, like “good” because of my absence, due to unconsciousness. 

How often have I missed the middle of my moments because it was:

Blurred over. 

Slurred over. 

Slept through. 

Sometimes though, it is the difficulty in the middle that makes the end so much worth it. 

Last night I was acutely aware of a different kind of hard, because for whatever reason, I couldn’t fall asleep. 

This hasn’t been an issue in a long time. Back likely when Bill would snore and if I didn’t fall asleep before him, I’d eventually make my way to the big, comfy couch. 

Eventually this too will pass. I know improved sleep, at the appropriate times, like while in bed at the end of a night, and not the chair in the middle of a movie, will happen. I just need to be patient with the unexpected insomnia. 

It’s better than the alternative–waking in the middle of the night, with an anxiety similar to skin crawling just under the surface, as the mind reels like a record on high speed, spewing out details of things that are hardly important, but unable to slow down her ramblings.