Does my city not sleep because it doesn’t want to or because it can’t? I know my answer.
I was never a troubled sleeper before moving to New York. I could have the worst fight with a friend or boyfriend, cry a good bit, and sleep through the night like a baby (this phrase no longer makes sense to me, suggested alternatives?).
Well, somehow this city that never sleeps turned me into an insomniac without even indulging in the outlandish nightlife or living in the never-quiet Manhattan. My part of Brooklyn happens to stay very quiet at night.
I think it’s mostly that I’m not completely at ease; NYC isn’t yet home. Just last weekend my sister walked into my room very quietly (the door was open to encourage air circulation from our common room AC window unit). As she approached my bed, I woke up just enough to scream at the top of my lungs. Talk about not at ease.
She proceeded to jump in my bed and laugh at me for 5 minutes. It took me a little longer to stop clutching my heart and see the humor in it.
I do my best to catch Zs on weeknights to be well rested for my job, but the city causes this sensory overload that is inescapable–even from all the way in Brooklyn. With recent reports that a severe lack of sleep is dangerous, I’m thankful for my habit of taking naps all day on the weekends to pretend like I catch up. If your weekdays are important to you, you keep smiling and funneling the espresso (I drink those canned double shots by Starbucks). Thus, your cranky, caffeine-dependent New Yorker monsters are created.
But the real punchline? I’m wrapping this up past midnight as sleepy minutes slip by.