It's 8:09 a.m., and I'm waiting for a man to show up. Once he gets here, I will usher him into my bedroom, and beg him to show me how his techno-toys work...it will involve straps, and hoses, and heavy breathing. Yes, that's right...I'm having an affair with...a CPAP machine.

See, it turns out, there's a reason I've been exhausted for the last, oh, six years or so. There's a reason I have trouble remembering what happened last week, for why I can't fall asleep without my good friend Ambien, for myriad aches, pains, and other small complaints. I have that uber-sexy, don't-you-wish-you-had-it-too condition, sleep apnea.

I know this because I got to have a sleep adventure at a lab, where they attached about 20 electrodes and wires to my face, body and scalp with this thick, sticky goop (so glad I'd washed my hair special for the occasion), gathered it all into a heavy ponytail behind me so I was afraid to move too much, and then wished me pleasant dreams. Um, yeah. That went really well. Despite my conviction that sleep was pretty much impossible under these conditions, I did sleep, sporadically (it was a looooong couple of hours), and apparently had enough apnea "events" to allow my doctor to diagnose it, and prescribe this lovely contraption that I am literally waiting with bated breath for.

So, come on, technician guy, do your worst, give me your bulkiest, unloveliest, unsexiest machine. I'm ready for you. And I think I'll probably end up thanking you for it, as the mere idea of sleep...real sleep...night after night of restful, restorative sleep... makes me all verklempt.