I flirted with sleep last night. Balancing the weight of my eyelids with the desire to finish whatever show it was we had playing on TV. 

Katie was doing the same next to me in bed. Except she was losing the match much faster than I. 

At one point, I slipped into a wary unconsciousness and was almost immediately awoken by the sensation of wet against the back of my upper thigh and along my lower back. 

No. No, no, no, no, no, no!

I reached down and felt the front of my pajama pants. Nothing at all. Only dry cotton. 

Then I looked over and realized Katie was sound asleep and the cup of whatever she had been drinking that I never realized she had in her hands had fallen free and spilled down onto me. 

A wave of relief flushed over me. The panic, though, began anew. I had wet pants, wet sheets, wet blanket, and, being 2 a.m., I wasn’t entirely sure I cared enough to fix it. 

I took a hand towel that wasn’t already ravaged by the effects of Coronavirus hand washing and stuck it between the sheet and mattress pad. I placed a second one on top of the sheet so I at least had a dry spot on which to fall back asleep and did just that. 

At least I’m not in the market for adult diapers... yet.


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