Late

I've never had insomnia.  Not real, stay up all night, tossing and turning, mind whirring, insomnia.  The closest I've come is an hour or two falling asleep or upon waking in the middle of the night -- and these are extremely rare instances.  I get this trait from my father, who falls asleep the minute his head hits the pillow.  There should be a word for that -- upon pillow-hit.  He says his deep sleeping is the sign of a clear conscience.  I'm not sure what that says about my mother.

Tonight, I have decided to pull an all-nighter.  Or rather, the all-nighter was decided for me when I realized I had three hours of sleep left.  Actually, it was decided when I -- according to custom -- grossly underestimated the amount of time I would need to pack and clean before my flight.

As a non-insomniac, I find myself without an armory of middle-of-the-night distractions.  Compounding matters is the decision I made at a cafe this evening that went something like this:

Me: What should I get?
Lauren: Do you want caffeine?
Me: No.

Past Siobhan is clearly an optimistic little fuzz bunny.  I'm also thanking her for vowing off online TV for Lent.

**

I've had a very difficult time deciding what music should accompany during my vigil.  My gut reaction was something peppy to energize me, but that quickly sounded obnoxious.  New music is too much of a gamble.  So I went with classical: non-invasive, good company.

I'm terrible about the names of classical music.  I'm bad with composers, too.  Even pieces of music that I've played for years.  There are certain types of information that, if I'm not intentional, will slip through my mind the minute I hear them.  Classical music names, strangers' names, directions.

My classical music slips into Backstreet Boys, which is the best way to keep oneself from becoming pretentious about music: remnants of middle school tastes.