Geez, gotta go back to blankets!

When it got cold a couple of months ago, I was changing my sheets when it came to me that it might be more efficient to just get my cold-weather sleeping bag down from the loft. I generally sleep with no heat on, 'cause why waste propane on the unconscious? But when I get cold, I'm not unconscious anymore. With my mummy bag, I figured, there was no way I'd wake up cold. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

Mostly it works fine. Except sometimes, like last night, I wake up in a shock from some nightmare where I'm trapped and suffocating. I flail out, except I can't because my arms can't move. Instant panic, a wild thrashing as I try to get the damned bag unzipped. Click the cat, who was comfortably curled against my belly, goes flying. The boys, seeing Uncle Joel awake now, decide it's time to go outside even though it's probably only eleven at night. So I've got to convince them to go back to bed before I can compose myself.

Last night was particularly bad; I didn't think I was ever getting back to sleep and was afraid to zip the bag back up lest I slip right back into the nightmare. Usually I don't remember my dreams at all, but I had a terribly vivid memory of being waterboarded by Joni Mitchell. Weird and incongruous on top of the unpleasantness.

Enough already - I remember, every morning after a night like that, why I never really liked that bag. But then it all goes away and by the following evening I stuff myself back into the suffocating fartsack. This morning I'm digging out the sheets and blankets again. Just have to remember to wear a hoody to bed so my poor bald head doesn't keep me awake with cold.