I’m a troubled sleeper — always have been. Sleep eludes me like Trix cereal continues to elude that poor, silly rabbit. I’m forever chasing it and it’s forever just out of my grasp.

A thing about getting old is: it doesn’t get any better.

I find myself waking earlier and earlier every morning. Doesn’t matter what time I went to bed. Last night I made a bad choice. Wrapped up in a blanket on a love seat in my room, I surfed the web, drank iced tea and watched Matt flip channels on the television. We talked about politics and laughed about the asinine and got into a weird deep, philosophical discussion about how, if you could send your body back to another time — but not actually GO back in time, just, you know, your body would revert to another time in your life when you were in better shape would you do it and would it matter because what if you just made all the same mistakes over again that got you to this point in your body where you have this scarred and messed up body but wait — what if you could take with you the memory of what got you to that body so you didn’t repeat those mistakes and — anyway, you get the picture. It was a weird existential discussion that went on way longer than it should.

Next thing I know, it’s nearly 4 a.m.

I know! What was I thinking? Now, normally, that wouldn’t be a problem because it was Saturday night and I had nowhere to be this morning. But since I’m old and give out, I can’t sleep in like I used to. In the olden days I could have slept in until 4 p.m. today and all would well. Yeah, no. This morning I pop awake at my usual time and wonder who died in my head and why my soul feels crushed.

I only tell you all this because I think you should know. I only tell you all this because, if you can at all help it, don’t get old. All kinds of things suck about it.