A few months ago Scott entered my office (during working hours! The impudence) and told me with no small amount of concern that, the night before, I had been choking to death in my sleep. That is, I was snoring, which I have been known to do (and which he claims is “cute” and “no really it’s fine” and “maybe it’s loud sometimes”) and then sort of gurgling and then not breathing at all for an alarming few seconds.

This wasn’t the first time he told me he heard this; it was the third, I think? But it was the first time I truly heard him. “Well, shit,” I said. And signed up for a sleep study. I did it at home, because if I went to a sleep center there would be no way I would ever sleep, with those pervs watching me. (They’re all pervs, right? I assume that’s how they get their kicks.)

The results showed that I have obstructive sleep apnea, that I was having around 40 events per hour, and that my oxygen was dipping alarmingly low at times, with about 85% of my sleep characterized as “light.” The good news, the doctor claimed, was that a CPAP machine was going to change my life. So much good sleep coming my way! No more morning headaches and afternoon grogginess! All I have to do was strap on a mask that will blast air at my face and it’s off to Dreamland I will go.