My sleep has, for the last few years, felt much deeper in the winter than in the summer. In summers, I wake earlier even when I fall asleep at about ten, ten-thirty every night, year-round. In summers, I wake up several times during the night, though they’re just brief: to make sure my husband made it to bed, to change sleeping positions, to check the clock. When I wake naturally in the morning, I’m fully awake as soon as I sit up; it feels like a good night’s sleep.
In the winter, whether I wake up by my alarm clock, by Just’In’s insistence, or just naturally, by a niggling note that I must do something that morning, I’m not fully awake. Sleep remains and makes my speech blurry, my steps fuzzy. I feel like I’ve slept much deeper than in summer; I don’t wake up in the middle of the night. Maybe it’s the colder weather that does this, and subsequently the weight of the blankets. Maybe it’s the feeling of being tucked in and of having a warm bedmate.
Maybe it’s my dreams. I remember far fewer of my dreams in the winter than I do in the summer. The causes of my sleep-talking and walking are curious; I’d like the keep track of the instances my subconscious manfifests herself in speech or action through me. (Just’In’s blog explores that concept; since he watches them and I have no knowledge of them unless he tells me, it’s appropriate) Maybe there’s a correlation. Maybe I do this stuff more often once the cold weather sets in than I do any other time. Or maybe it’s the other way around.
I do know that my two-hour nap today wasn’t necessary, but I almost didn’t make it to work. The sleep was that deep for only two hours. I guess I needed it.