Fear of Bedtime

You read that correctly. It's not "Fear of Monsters Under My Bed" or "Fear of the Dark."

As the youngest of 3 kids (or "children" as my journalism professor used to insist because "kids" are baby goats), I was always the first one sent to bed (as it should be). So while my parents were up reading the newspaper or watching TV and my siblings were up doing homework, I would be shuffled off to my room and instructed to go to sleep.

I remember my bedtime going from 7:30 to 8:00, and I remember specifically that I could then watch "The Cosby Show." When 8:30 would roll around, I would occasionally catch the opening credits of "A Different World" before my mom would wrap up my funtime and send me to bed.

If you've ever met my parents, you know that not only are they party people, they are also not night owls. They ran a tight ship and didn't allow any tomfoolery from my siblings either, especially late at night.

And yet, when I was sent to bed at 8:00 or 8:30, I inherently felt like I was missing out on something. Something fun was happening and I was not a party to it.

Numerous times I would creep out from my room, through the house, and simply lie at the top of the basement steps where I could see the top 1/8 of the TV screen, the top of my mom's head, and my dad's arm. Why? Because I wanted to know what they were doing. I wanted to see what was happening. Even if that was nothing, I wanted to hear them doing nothing.

I would lie there, next to our cat's food dish and the potato bin, just listening until my mom would eventually grow tired of hearing me shuffle around and yell up, "Heidi Kathleen......get back into bed NOW." I thought I was stealthy and could outwit her by being quiet. Granted, I was not a bright kid. I didn't realize that every board in our floor squeaked, so she knew the exact moment I left my bedroom, and had audio traced every step. She knew how long I had been at the top of the stairs and would eventually just grow tired of wondering what I was doing up there.

Around the age of 14 or 15, I became the owner of my bedtime.

I was in high school and I would stay up until 10 doing homework for the next day. Soon it was 11. Then it was midnight. My mom would stop in to say goodnight, give me a kiss on the top of my head, and simply say, "Don't stay up too late." That, and usually, "Why do you wait so long to do this?" But I'd do my homework listening to Dee Snyder on WZZO, rocking to hairbands of the 80s while doing algebra and I'd be happy.

Sometime in high school, my friend Deege confessed she was also the last-minute paper writer and I found solace on those nights and mornings at 3 am knowing she was also probably up finishing the same assignment.

I loved those nights. At 3 am in a suburban town, you feel a sense of quiet and a sense of solace; even the people on basic TV channels seem like they're talking just to you. I would hear my parents wake up, make coffee, it's like I was seeing behind the curtain of Oz.

When I got to college, my night owl habits were encouraged. I started working for the housing staff of my dorm and when I volunteered for most of the 4 am to 6 am shifts, people were thankful. It was an odd time of day to be awake because it prevented getting a full night's sleep before the shift unless I went to bed at 8 pm (when I was still at step aerobics). And it prevented getting a full night's sleep after the shift (because I chose classes that started at 9 am).

But the night was mine. I did homework, I wrote letters, I wrote in my journal, I watched one-night stands come and go, and I watched Public Safety take out people with alcohol poisoning. It was serene and yet, I saw things happening and felt like I was part of a secret club of night owls.

My college roommate, Spank, shared a room with me for four years. For the first year, we had bunk beds and when it was bedtime, she'd pass the remote control either up to me or down to me after she watched the 11:00 news. I would still be awake and whenever she'd pass the remote control to me, it felt like "YES! I win again! I'm still up and I'm not missing anything." I'd go to sleep soon after, but it was almost always after I heard her drift off into a peaceful snooze.

The funny thing is that a few years ago, Spank confessed that this had set a pattern of sleep for her. She was so used to me going to bed after her, that when she dated someone she'd try to fall asleep before them. It comforted her knowing someone was still up. And if they went to bed before her, she would have the hardest time falling asleep. 

Now I live with my boyfriend and I've noticed a similar pattern. Last night I was tired at around 10 pm. I was in bed, checking Facebook and thought, "(yawn) I'm tired. I should just go to bed." Then I noticed he was still up and doing something in our living room. I decided, "No, I'll stay up. He's still up. I'll stay up with him." Not 5 minutes later he said he was tired and decided to go to bed, which was a relief and meant I didn't have to stay up late.

I'm 32 years old and even though he was just reading comic books on his iPad, I didn't want to miss out on the excitement.

Maybe one of these days I'll realize that I AM the excitement and when I go to bed the show is over.

Bank of America Meets Harry Potter

Justin and I opened a safe deposit box today.

Unfortunately, due to watching too many Bourne Identity movies, we walked in thinking we'd get a retina scan, thumbprint scan, and maybe walk through a metal detector.

Instead, we walked into Bank of America, and were told to take the elevator down a floor. Ok, elevators mean extra security, right? I mean, even though we didn't get patted down yet, SURELY that's what's coming as soon as we get off the elevator.

But we get off, walk down a hallway and it's like we were transported back to 1984. Everything is weird shades of color, the art on the walls looks faded and has captions written on a typewriter. The rug under the uncomfortable chairs padded with wool is worn under the four legs. The fake flower arrangements everywhere look like they could be dusted.

So we walk over to literally, THE ONLY PERSON down there and it's some guy named (wait for it......) Stephen Austin. As in, STONE COLD Steve Austin, the wrestler. Except this guy is about 70. And has that little pool of white spittle in the corner of his mouth.

He has 3 pens, a library book, and a giant calendar on his desk next to his PC. That's it. It's like it was staged.

Seriously, it's so quiet that after we explained what we wanted, we can hear this guy's nose whistle. As he's entering all our information, he's mumbling to himself. Every. Single. Thing. that he types.

"Address? 12 Vinton St. 1-2 V-i-n-t-o-n S-t-r-e-e-t." So painful.

Then he gets out a giant binder that must've weighed 30 pounds and slams it down on the desk. Papers flutter. He gets out a rubber date stamp and stamps like 20 pieces of paperwork (HELLO. It's 2012. HOW IS THIS STUFF NOT COMPUTERIZED?)

The entire time, Justin and I were trying to hold it together.

Then I flashed him this image and he lost it.



To which he whispered, "And does Mr. Harry Potter have his key?" To which I lost it.