Inside Gigi's World

The time is now 5:08 am. I can hear the lurking sounds of my father-in-law walking up and down the stairs that lead from the back of our house to the front of the house. The railing creaks and he begins banging on the door for the third time this morning since I woke up at 4:02, suffering from another hot flash—I swear I could cook an egg on my back when I get one of these wretched things…hot flashes. At first I thought maybe it was just a fluke: The stress from school and living with teenagers, work…but after a week of restless sleep, uncontrollable moments of crying and waking up so hot that I wanted to strip down into nothing but my socks and underpants—the world can take a thankful, sigh of relief to know that I did not indeed do that—and a doctor’s appointment, I realized that it was not in fact because of stress but instead the culprit was perimenopause and I am getting fucking old. 

But I am getting off topic here. It is now 5:12 am and I hear the same tinging of the railing outside which indicates to me that my father-in-law is going to either begin to bang on the door and ring the doorbell again or that in a moment or two I will here the second set of tings as he walks back over our stairs again to go back home.

The all-night door banging and menacing sounds of the railing feel like the never-ending, always repetitive scene from a horror movie that I watched before bed, even though I know I shouldn’t have. The kind of horror movie that has kept me up all night giving me sleep paralysis and makes me feel like something is going to come flying out of our closet—if we had one. So, I pull the my pillow and blankets over my head, desperately hoping that some invisible, dark force that is at work here isn’t going to come rip them off of me. A monster does not come to rip the blankets off of me. I do that myself instead because here comes one of those goddamn hot flashes again. I throw everything off of me and decide in an instant if Satan— or my father-in-law —want to do me in, then that’s it …it’s my time to meet Jesus, I think she’d like me. 

Around 4:30 am, I hone in on the sound of my husband sleeping next to me. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. There is a slight snore escaping his mouth but not the kind that makes me want to smother him with his own pillow until the sound stops, rather the sound is a lite, wispy one that I find soothing. He is relaxed. He looks peaceful, which is something that escapes him often now. I try to slow my breathing to match his, a trick I have used since we were young to help lull myself back to sleep…

4:40 am. My husband rolls over to find my face lit up by my stupid phone, watching more videos on french knots and how to make the perfect homemade bread. FULL DISCLOSURE: I do embroider. I, however, have never made bread, never want to make bread nor will I ever have the desire to try. So why am I watching these videos? Your guess is as good as mine…madness I guess. P.S. The yeast and the starter (wait, are those the same things?), that’s the secret to the perfect bread or so Suzy the Homemaking, TikToking, influencer claims.

He asks what’s wrong. He wants to make sure I am alright. I reassure him I am.

 “Just another hot flash,” I tell him. “Can’t fall back asleep.” I’ll tell him about all the dinging and donging once we head out for the day. No need to worry him now.

“We should put a fan on your side of the bed,” he says sleepily. A sweet suggestion.

I answer, “Then I’ll just get cold.”

“I suppose you’re right.” He rolls over and I can hear his soft breathing again. 

I think to myself, “I usually am.”

4:49 am…

“Ding-dong. Ring-a-ding-ding-dong! Ring-open the fucking door asshole, or I am going to keep ding-donging!!! Ddddiiiinnnngggg-ddddoooonnnngggg…”

If I had a gun, now would be the time I blew that fucking doorbell to sweet nothingness.

Silence for a second and then…

Sweet baby Jesus, that goddamn doorbell starts firing off like the fireworks on the Fourth of fucking July. 

Inhale…

Exhale…

Inhale…

Exhale…

Ding…

Inhale…

Dong…

Exhale…

Ding…

Inha…Dong…Bang…Bang…Bang

Ex…Ding-Dong…Bang…Bang…Bang…Bang

Exha…DING…BANG…wait, was I breathing in or out?

Son of a bitch…here comes another hot flash, any one want eggs for breakfast? 

My husband starts stirring a  little restlessly next to me. I decide it is better to sacrifice myself and let him sleep. He has to go into the office today, he needs rest. The only thing on my agenda for today is to go to the high school I work at and pray that my students realize Mrs. G had a rough night—not for the reasons they will concoct in their heads and laugh about at lunch—and cut me a little slack.

So I finally unroll myself from my nest I’ve made and climb out of bed to make my way downstairs, just hoping the last hour my husband gets to sleep is more peaceful than the one I am having. 

I’m up. I’m fucking up!

4:56 am.

The floor creeks underneath my feet as I walk down the stairs.

The blue light from the clock on the stove mocks me. The brightness reminders me that it is going to be a long, tiring day.

I contemplate dumping the contents of the fridge on the floor—no one is going to eat those goddamn leftovers, I’ll just end up throwing them out when I get irritated that I can’t find room for the new leftovers anyways. I think the inside of the fridge might be the only place in the house where I might find some peace and quiet. Just another lie I tell myself. Someone will wake up and want a soda or a half container of onion dip for breakfast. 

I hear the sink dripping.

I have to call our repair guy.

I feel like I always need to call him about something…

The railing clanks again…

The most important take-away is that I always forget to call the repairman…

Until I am sitting in the dark, downstairs, alone, praying no monster grabs my ankles from underneath my chair…then I remember the dripping sink.

The second clank, he must be headed back home again. 

The fridge fires up. Is it supposed to make that cranking sound?

Another hot flash starts at the tippity most top part of my toes and begins to lurk its way up my feet and into my calves. I’m just thankful I’m not swimming in my own sweat…at least not yet. Who the hell knows what 41 and perimenopause will bring? I succumb to the idea that my forties (already, even though they have newly begun) is like playing the craps wheel at the casino but instead of winning money or going broke, there are much funner prizes on this wheel: brain fog, insomnia, crying, irritability, dry skin, dry hair, the uncontrollable urge to punch every single fucking person in the face who chews with their mouth open, cleaning out the fridge to find a quiet place to sit, begging Jesus to take the wheel and then telling him he’s a much shittier driver than I am, wanting nothing but cake for breakfast while fearing I will drop dead that exact second from a pulmonary embolism or cardiac episode, thinking I will never figure out the meaning of life because I didn’t get to have a cat when I was a kid and fearing that if Jesus did decide to take me now, the rest of my (evil) doings would go undone. 

6:00 am. My no-good, piece-of-shit alarm would start singing now—wake up asshole, wake up. No one cares how tired you are or how tired you will be. We all hate you. Wake up—if I hadn’t been up already for two hours and shut it off ten minutes ago. 

The house starts to stir. My family is waking up and rustling. The sleeping giants will start a melee in the kitchen over who will get into the bathroom first to shower. Doesn’t matter all the same, by the time I get in there, there will be no more hot water and I won’t have a clean dry towel. In fact, there hasn’t been towels on the bathroom shelf since 1923—and I’ve only lived here since 2005.

Fight club is never any fun this early in the morning. It doesn’t even matter what they choose for weapons.

The kitchen light that is turned on will no doubt attract my father-in-law back over here, drawn like a moth to a flame. 

I wonder if there is still time to clean out the fridge…

Once 7:02 am rolls around, I’ll be headed off to work. By 7:28 am no one will be left in the house. I will be thankful that even though I am not in it, the house will be quiet during the day because even though I get no rest, the things that go bump in the night will.