Non, Je ne regrette rien!

Last night I woke up four times.

This morning, my friend Val called me and I discovered that she woke up four times last night, too.

Why?

We don't know.

I suggested that maybe it's the subtle approach of Spring. Maybe we're both so anxious to wake up and greet our day, I suggested. She laughed. She works full-time and has a daughter in school---she soaks up any sleep she can get.

As for me, the single gal---I have no idea. Piaf songs raced thru my head all night. Chansons with accordians about love and loss and broken dreams and sheer bliss.

I can't say it's exactly what wakes me up; but Piaf is the first thing I think of as I shuffle the cat off the bed this morning.

What are these occasional, maddening, sleepless nights all about? Sometimes I wake up happy. Other times, bleak and sad. I have no idea.

Over a cup of coffee, I try to remember and analyze the dreams. If I can even recall them, they never seem to make sense.

The next day, I'm exhaused. I drag thru the day, fully aware of the fact that I didn't get enough sleep the night before. I'll sleep good tonight, I tell myself. One for the records.

Crawling out of work, exhausted and dazed, I get onto a train and nearly fall asleep several times---somehow managing to jolt myself awake two stops before I have to get off. Beddy-bye plans have been in preperation all day. A hot bath. A soft pillow. A cup of herbal tea. And...well, that's pretty much it.

And then, somewhere between the walk from the train and opening my apartment door---I'm awake.

Wide awake.

One sleepless night tends to extend itself into the next three days.

I woke up four times last night. Today is Monday. I will, most likely, not get this mental clock fixed till sometime Wednesday afternoon.

What did I accomplish?

Absolutely nothing.

That is, nothing in the practical sense. Thru a series of complete time-wasters, however, I did learn some new Polish words, discovered my friend Nina didn't like donuts via her Facebook status, realized that the piece of tilapia in my refrigrator wasn't "bad" after all, watched clips from "Whatever Happened To Baby Jane?" on YouTube, sewed a button onto a coat, took care of a potential hangnail, read up on the history of jug bands, dusted off my tennis racket, and found my good scissors.

I'm exhausted.

But I regret nothing.

This is life. In all its meaningless splendor. C'est la vie.

I don't know why I woke up so much last night. But I must have needed something. My body must have been craving some kind of attention. Maybe the hangnail took care of it. Or the discovery of the long-lost scissors. Either way, I've learned to live with my cravings. For sleep or otherwise.

Life always seems to be protrayed as either a series of accomplishments or a string of miraculous events piled on top of the other. But sometimes, I've discovered, it's just about enjoying a delicious loaf of bread. Or a hug from a friend. Or maybe even the brilliance of Bette Davis in "Whatever Happened To Baby Jane?"

In any case, I'm too tired this morning to try to figure out what life's really all about. I'm just trying to enjoy my coffee. Outside my kitchen window, nothing goes on except a piece of newpaper wafting back and forth in the wind. I try to make sense of it. Turn it into something. But I can't.

I'm so tired now, but I'll survive. Something inside of me was fulfilled last night. For hours, I strained to discover what the thing was---perhaps thinking, if I knew why I was waking up, I could find a more sensible way of fulfilling my body's needs.

A few minutes ago, I gave up wondering. I decided I prefered the mystery.

Non, je ne regrette rien.