Last night was one of those nights. I couldn’t sleep. No diet Coke. No late night coffee runs. No chocolate. Nothing that would turn me into an insomniac. In fact, I’ve had more nights of insomnia in the past few years than in my whole life. Which is interesting.
My sister had a Feng Shui master come into the house. The master saw my room and asked my sister if I was sleeping well. My sister didn’t know. The master masterfully suggested in her wisest of wisdom that I move my bed to another wall, turn it so my feet would point east, and my sleeping problems would be solved.
All righty then.
One day, I came home and found my bed pushed against the other wall. At the time, I didn’t know why. Nor did I know a Feng Shui master had wisely assessed my sleeping arrangements, using thousands of years of Feng Shui know how.
That night I lay my head down to sleep. My feet pointed east, though I normally don’t make a note of where my feet point. An hour goes by, and I’m like, WTF mate? I’m still awake. It usually takes me fifteen minutes to say hello to the sandman.
Another hour goes by. Crap!
An hour later I’m still freakin’ awake.
I got two hours of sleep that night. I remember because it was the start of a line of sleepless nights. A month later my sister was kind enough to inform me of what the master had suggested. A few years had passed since then.
I had turned up my workout up a notch yesterday. Summer is coming so I gotta look nice for the ladies. When I went to bed, my body was desperate for much needed rest. An hour goes by and I’m awake. But a few minutes later Mr. Sandman was knocking on my door. Not only was he knocking on my door, but the floor just outside my room creaked.
Nothing. House was settling.
I twisted and turned, found a comfortable spot, and began to let the bits of consciousness drip away.
Floorboards creaked. Someone was walking around the hallway.
My sister went to sleep before I did, so I knew it wasn’t her. Hallway light wasn't on because it didn't creep under my door.
I sat up and my bed squeaked.
The steps stopped.
I could feel my heart hitting my chest.
Floorboards creaked again, I heard shuffling outside, and it sounded as if someone was walking on the roof. I was surrounded!
I jumped off my bed, grabbed a katana—Samurai sword—and waited for whomever to barge through my shut door.
C’mon, man. My hand squeezed the hilt. I could see the path of the sword. C’mon!
No one came in. The steps disappeared.
I turned on the light, opened my door. No one stood outside. I proceeded to check the whole house with sword in hand. There were no signs anyone was in the house. I eased back upstairs.
Here’s the funny part.
My Samurai sword is not real. The blade is not tempered steel. If there were a Samurai in my house, his katana would slice through mine like buttah. But what are the chances a Samurai would show up in my house?
Second, my fake sword is so unbalanced that if I swung and missed, it’d take me a hundred years to recover.
Third, beyond swinging the sword like a bat, my skills with a katana is like my skills of levitation. Non-existent.
All this because my sister listened to a Feng Shui master. And I never found the source of the ruckus.