Unbelievable as it is to me, it is true: as of this writing, I have only three Sundays left in Iraq. Exactly five weeks from this moment, I will be at Ft. Benning, GA, reunited with my sweetheart Lorri, completing the CRC redeployment process. Yet, as I watch the days tick down on my little desktop counter thingie, that date seems a long long way off, and I can’t quite feel it. That may be a good thing at this point; I’m guessing that once I am close enough that I can almost taste the clean, dust and/or diesel-free air, the seconds will start to drag a bit. Right now, I am still (mostly) enjoying the ride.

This week’s Saturday-to-Sunday routine was fairly typical. On Saturday night, my neighbors and I had our usual get-together, in this case to watch Band of Brothers just outside of our cans on CPT Baker’s ridiculously oversized big-screen laptop. After two episodes, a few of us hopped into Barney and headed to the DFAC for “midnight rats,” the half-dinner-half-breakfast meal served for those workers who can’t get to the regular meals because of work. I had a nice omelet, a couple of waffles, and grabbed some cereal for Sunday morning. Back home around 11:30, at which point I caught the remainder of the (crummy) Red Sox game versus the Angels on AFN. I usually stay up late on Saturday nights, because I don’t have to be anywhere on Sunday until 1 PM (first church meeting of the day). So, on Sunday morning, I attempted to catch up on my sleep.

I choose my words carefully here, because the reality is that, though I attempt to sleep late every single Sunday, I rarely succeed. This failure is, in itself, remarkable, as it is truly difficult to conceive of a more sleep-friendly scenario than mine on Saturday nights in Al Asad. To wit:

• I have no work to get to in the morning, since I’m generally off on Sundays.
• My family is out and about doing their own Saturday stuff thousands of miles away, and they generally do not call me after 11 PM (often, due to my spotty internet access, physically cannot do so). I’m like a doctor without a pager.
• I stay up late on Saturday nights, surfing the net, watching Saturday-afternoon baseball, blogging, etcetera, which means that I should be very tired by the time I hit the hay.
• I eat breakfast at midnight, stuffing myself to the gills with high-protein foods. (Mmm, L-tryptophan.)
• I have a small personal living area with entirely user-modifiable temperatures, and a nice, cozy bed, inside a hermetically-sealed plastic container. It is like I am in a sensory deprivation tank. Eerily like that, in fact.
• I am “The Major,” so none of my co-workers dare to knock on my door, barring emergencies. (This is not because I am mean; it’s just how my very professional soldiers have always treated me.)
• There is not much else to do except sleep.

In spite of all of this, my attempts to crash past about 0730 have generally been unsuccessful. I have diligently attempted to ascertain the reasons for this, so that I can eliminate them. One possible explanation was that I am awakened and stripped of melatonin by the very bright light that comes shining into my window starting at around 0430 (Iraq does not follow daylight savings time). I have eliminated this as a possibility by hanging my thick green army blanket over the window on Saturday night. Didn’t help.

Another possibility is the noise. I do, in fact, live not only near, but actually inside the confines of the airport. Planes, helicopters, and strange creatures which are combinations of the two (true story, that) constantly fly over my tin can, rattling the walls in attempt to find the harmonic frequency and bust me open like Joshua at Jericho. This kept me up a bit initially, but now I hardly notice it; the machinery sounds are simply a part of the aural landscape, and they block out the Halo sounds next door. At this point, I’m pretty well convinced that when I finally get home, in order to get any rest I’ll probably have to go and buy one of those “soundscapes” alarm clocks, but one with a “Combat” setting (perhaps right in between “Ocean” and “Rainforest”). So, I don’t think it’s the noise.

So what gives?

Unfortunately, I and many (all?) of my family members are blighted with the “Rupard Curse.” This is a multi-functional curse, including (but not limited to) the following items:

• Male members get receding hairlines at an astonishingly early age. Want proof? Check out my yearbook picture. My high school yearbook picture.
• Multiple chins, again at an early age, and even when the rest of the body is at ideal weight.
• The “John Travolta” syndrome, in which approximately five-sixths of all weight gained at any given time goes directly to the noggin. Rupard men all have big heads, but when we get a bit overweight, they become medium-sized planetoids. I swear, some of my med school pix look like I had just moments before discovered my latent peanut allergy. (By the way, this is also known as the “Barry Bonds Phenomenon.”)
• Proctalgia fugax. I’m not even gonna tell you what this is, or link to it; you’ll just have to look it up yourself. (If you don’t have it, you won’t understand it.)
• A retentiveness which (let’s face it, compadres), occasionally crosses that fine line into the nether reaches of OCD.
• And finally, the raison d’etre of this particular digression: Rupardian Insomnia. This is not quite like regular insomnia, in which the poor sucker has to wade through two post-Letterman infomercials before finally dropping off to abbreviated-but-productive sleep. The Rupardian variant renders the protagonist willing and often able to fall asleep, but unable to remain out for more than about 45 minutes at a time. He/she is constantly waking up, looking at the alarm clock (”Crap! Only 2:45″), and laying there in the dark for 5 to 500 minutes or so, before eventually drifting back to sleep for another 45 minutes. I like to think of this as “Reverse Narcolepsy” and I have been suffering for years, as have all of the rest of us. It wasn’t until I was married and able to enviously watch my wife as she slept, on-and-on, with no alarm-clock-checks and no full-body-pillow-reshufflings, that I figured out my sleep behavior was not that of a normal hunam being.

So, I conclude that my inability to sleep beyond 7:30 is multifactorial, with my sleep genetics being the primary culprit. Ah well, at least I’m good looking…

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Rupard Mailbag

About two weeks ago, I sent a true desperado of an e-mail to mom and dad, asking for a few items which were completely, entirely NOT essential, but which would make my time here a wee bit nicer. They responded, as they always do, by sending not one, but two packages just a few short days later. Unfortunately, when the United States Army and the United States Postal Service meet, as they do here in Iraq, the vaunted efficiency of both organizations dwindles just a bit.

So, although my parents sent the two packages quite literally at the same time, I received one last Saturday the 12th (included baby wipes, almond butter, Propel flavor packets, and the all-important Jelly Bellies), and spent the rest of the week expecting but not receiving package #2. After Monday and Tuesday passed, my hopes dropped a bit, and by Friday, I had given #2 up for lost. On Saturday, however, SGT Hert gave me hope when he told me that his wife’s boxes regularly got delivered a week or more apart from one another, and yesterday (Sunday), SPC Penkert knocked on my door and delivered said package #2 (more almond butter, much-needed black socks, more flavor packets, more baby wipes). Thanks very much, LymeRupards!

This bodes well for my post-office-happiness this week, as I am expecting a couple of packages from my sweet wife, who has an uncanny knack for sending me exactly what I need.