(Of the bed.) Sleeping with a CPAP means that I hug the edge of the bed all night. There is only so long that the cords and tube may be, without my running the risk of strangulation if it's a particularly restless night. Sometimes I wake up in almost the same position as when I slid under the carefully arranged covers. I am warm. Or appropriately cool. My muscles and joints are relaxed. All is well in this little tabernacle of clay.
Other times it's as if I had been moving furniture in my dreams. I awake with half the covers on the floor or hanging off the side of the bed. My left shoulder aches from the effort to keep myself in a warm, cozy ball. My right elbow grumbles because that arm has been thrown back at an unnatural (but apparently quite sustainable) angle. My right knee is screaming that we are all going to die from hypothermia. My feet are two small igloos.
I awoke ahead of the alarm this morning because the ice cubes in my bladder wanted out. And then I went back to bed with only one desire: to thaw. I jumbled up the blankets into a plausible heap and inserted my cranky carcass beneath them. The classical music came on. I stayed put, thankful that it was real music and not twelve-tone nonsense, for nearly half an hour.
At this hour, I have improved to the point of feeling freeze dried. We count all the small victories. This morning there is no question of dawdling in my bed with my knitting. I will spend that time in the shower, poaching as the jets beat down on my trigger points. If wishes were horses, I would spend the next half hour in a hot tub, or walking in shoulder deep water in an overheated pool. If I had either. Which, sadly, I do not.
Because I am still not entirely warm. I foresee a trip to Racetrac on the way to work, for the largest hot chocolate that money can buy. OK. Pity party is over. I'm off to felt Ms. Ravelled.