I was looking forward to PBS BritComs last night. Turned on the TV in the midst of Antiques Roadshow, to turn it down and continue reading one of my Christmas books (Jim Butcher’s Fool Moon, the second of the Dresden Files books, which I’ve finally gotten round to reading). I haven’t read much, lately. The fall semester was hell on wheels on a number of fronts (reading, writing, exercising), what with teaching six classes and learning the ins and outs of running my program — the spring term should be much better (here’s hoping!).

Anyway, I was reading some brain candy (after having finished the first Dresden book, Storm Front, earlier in the day), getting ready for some mindless British humor, and otherwise enjoying a quiet Saturday night in. But sometime between 9:00 and 9:30, I just couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer, and I have no clue why (well, not entirely true, but we’re going to go with it — those of you reading who know will know what I think).

I faded in and out of sleep on my couch for several hours after that. I remember, briefly, being awake during As Time Goes By (10:00-10:30), again during The Vicar of Dibley (11:00-11:30), and once more during the post-BritCom fare, Our Ohio (11:30-12:00). Sometime right around 12, I turned off the TV, became ever so briefly aware enough to put on my pjs and go to bed, in the bed. Around 3, I awoke to terrible cramping, the solution to which is best left no further described, and then went back to sleep. At which point I slept soundly until a little before 8 this morning.

So the last time I remember being truly awake was 9pm. The first time I remember being anything resembling functional was 8am. That’s 11 hours. I know I’ve had a full-blown, followed by a half-assed, cold since last Friday (Christmas day). I know that New Year’s and me just don’t get along. But 11 hours of sleep? Really? And I feel like I could take a nap now?

But there’s something else here, too, because though I was (granted, off-and-on) asleep for 11 hours, the word unconscious in the title of this post may be somewhat misleading, because I don’t think the processor in my brain switched off at all. While it was not at all “active sleep” in the traditional sense of tossing and turning and tearing up the bedclothes, to which I have been somewhat subject recently (either that, or as I’m becoming convinced, the sheets that are on the bed at the moment, just don’t fit quite right), my brain did not stop working.

But I’m not convinced that my active brain did anything good, either. Oftentimes, when my brain doesn’t turn off as I sleep (and I’m not talking about typical dreaming here, but the sort of dreaming which seems to last all night), I wake up raring to go, because — no matter how much I may or may not remember, apart from that I was chasing something all night long — my conscious mind seems to be…I don’t know, is reassured the word I’m looking for?…by the nocturnal exertions of my unconscious mind.

Not so, today. There is, it seems, still more work to do, and that bothers me, because it’s stealing my waking focus.

Which is annoying.

Very, very annoying.