What in the hell must the neighbors think?
Ambien. It is the most popular prescription sleep aid in the nation, and why shouldn’t it be? I say. My love affair with Ambien has been thriving for nearly a decade. Sure, we’ve separated more than once when I’ve gone through a silly, little phase I refer to as wanting-to-be-able-to-remember-things-again, but we always end up coming back to one another.
Unlike many of the poor addicted saps I’ve read about on message boards, I have not built up a tolerance and haven’t gotten all Johnny Cash about it, sweating profusely and throwing a tantrum in a mini tractor while Thanksgiving dinner gets cold on the table until Reece Witherspoon breaks down and tells me where my stash is. So, obviously, I don’t have a problem.
Ours is a monogamous affair, *The Dambien and I. I don’t mess around with lesser bed buddies like those joke M&Ms called Lunesta or that waste of space Rozarem, and I never bring in more than one partner at a time. It’s just me, one little white pill, and a whole lot of fun. *I affectionately refer to Ambien as The Damnbien (the prefix damn because I can’t remember a damn thing after taking it and the bien because as they say in Mexico, bien is good).
It’s a fine day in this country when our copays cover not only a miracle cure for insomniacs, but a hallucinogenic one at that, one that provides hours of entertainment should we fail to tether ourselves to bed immediately upon ingestion. Hit record on a strategically-placed camcorder and you have got yourself a night to remember, my friend.
Many Dambien users find they become so relaxed on this sleep aid that they opt to go out for a little drive, feel the wind in their hair, watch the stars through the moon roof, not those pesky pedestrians or vermin so rudely making their way across the street in front of speeding Damnbimobiles.
When getting into their cars the next morning they discover rabbit-sized dents and fur tinseled about their bumpers, reminding us of why exactly Disney named that little bunny Thumper. (I always figured old Walt for an insomniac – the eye circles, the greed – those prescriptions really add up.)
Other Ambien enthusiasts awake to find they’ve eaten all of the food in their kitchens, empty cartons of Crisco and Funfetti frosting are strewed about, peanut butter is trapped under their nails, and a used spit with rabbit remains might have found its way into the living room.
While I don’t sleep eat, sleep drive, or even sleep bone – as a shocking number of people on the drug do – it turns out I do something far worse. As if I am the insane fifth member of Abba, I…sleep disco dance.
I awoke this morning with a nebulous recollection of having seen a disco ball pulsating vibrant illuminations about the bathroom. The left half of my spare tire and my right pointer finger felt tired and sore. I just figured Brian had gotten really lucky.
But then, when I got up and went into the bathroom to brush my teeth, I saw it. The evidence to support my disturbing theory.
There it was, the throbbing green light that indicated his electric toothbrush was still charging. I sat down on the toilet seat to ponder whether or not it had all been a dream, but from that very position, a flood of memories came back to me. Queue the xylophone and wavy dream sequence special effects….
I was sitting on the toilet, my eyelids at half mast, Shaggy Boombastic style, when flashes of green swirled by. I started to hear a beat, I could feel the bass, the rhythm of the night. What came next is unconscionable. I stood. I lifted my right arm. I pointed northwest. And I began…to dance. I don’t know how long I danced and I don’t know why, I only know that I shook my groove thang, alone in my bathroom between the hours of 2 and 4 am and I have the sneaking suspicion it’s an alibi my neighbors can corroborate.
And while I feel more than a tad embarrassed today, I can relax in the comfort of knowing that come tomorrow morning, should I have a little one-on-one time with The Dambien tonight, I will not have any idea this ever happened.