So last night I returned to hell, er, the sleep center. I was resigned to spend another night wired up, strapped in, tossing and turning, and in general getting no rest.

As luck would have it, I got the same technician and the same room. Ah, just like home.

The process was essentially the same. Electrodes were attached to the now hairless portions of my body where they were the last session. Portions of my scalp were scrubbed with grit and electrodes were attached. This time, my technician was taking no chances: she brought out the duct tape. No, not really, but she did tape each electrode down extra firmly and also taped the wires into place.

But lo! No nose plug this time. “What gives?” I ask. Ah, this time it’s the “CPAP” study. I believe this stands for “Continuous Positive Airway Pressure.” If you’d like to simulate it, have a friend drive down the highway at about 80mph. Now stick your head out the window straight into the wind and breath. Ah… refreshing!

This wind-tunnel breathing is accomplished with a mask that fits over your nose and is then connected to machine that delivers pressure constantly, forcing your airways open, so that you don’t stop breathing and all.

So there I was. Wired. Masked. Just relaxing and getting comfortable. Same drill as before, only now, instead of not being able to move, I couldn’t breathe either!

I was instructed to close my mouth and breath through my nose. I did. But I couldn’t seem to get enough air, so I started breathing through my mouth. Let me tell you, this is one weird feeling. With your mouth closed, it’s almost normal. Like breathing in a wind gust. But when you open your mouth, air comes rushing out, and you feel the pressure. It’s bizarre.

So the technician came on the intercom and asked, “Is your mouth closed?”

“No, I can’t get enough air just through my nose.”

“Ah, I’ll try more pressure.”

And with that, the machine made a whirring noise and suddenly the tube tightened and now I couldn’t not breathe through my nose if I wanted to. I found it extremely easy to get enough air in through my nose, but it was almost impossible to breathe out my nose, against the pressure. It occurred to me this would be a decent way to teach circular breathing.

“Is your mouth still open?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I can’t breathe out my damn nose!”

“Okay, the pressure’s too high.”

The cacophony from the machine subsided, and now I found it possible to breathe again, both in and out, through my nose. Not that it was comfortable, it wasn’t. And I swear, it felt like it took forever to fall asleep.

And then something absolutely f’d up happened.

I woke up.

And it was morning.

I hadn’t woken up once the entire night. And I actually felt good. I wasn’t tired, and I am always tired when I wake up in the morning. I mean, always. I felt rested and refreshed and all those things normal people claim they feel when they wake up! Now, don’t get me wrong, morning people are still freaks.

But now I can really appreciate what a good night’s sleep can do. And hopefully, when I get one of these little contraptions for myself, I’ll be able to get a good night’s sleep at home.

Apparently, some 12 million American’s suffer from sleep apnea, and as luck would have it, I’m one of them. I fit the general risk group: I’m male, I’m overweight… I’m not over 40 yet, but I’m not as spry as I used to be. Additionally, my father has horrible apnea (and ironically, is quite thin).
So it really didn’t come as much sup rise to me that my wife complained about my snoring. But when she mentioned that it often seemed like I was gasping for air at night, and one night I actually woke up gasping for breath, I had a thought, “Perhaps, I should consult my doctor.”

And so began my journey into the world of the sleep study.

About two weeks ago, I had my first study. The goal is to monitor your sleeping, determine what is wrong, and then try some treatments to see what works best. My doctor ordered a “split study” which means they do the monitoring for half the night, then try treatments for half the night. Oh, to be so lucky.

The sleep study is held at the sleep center, which here in a major city is located in a hotel downtown. The hospital has an entire floor of the hotel which serves as the sleep center. Which is better than being in a hospital room. I suppose.

The room looks pretty normal. Except the IR LED array that functions as a “light”. You and I can’t see it, but it does light up the room for the “eye in the sky” camera that points down at the bed. Oh, and then there’s the data harness and various machines on the nightstand. It all looks a little odd, but nothing too intimidating.

Little did I know that a “sleep study” means becoming a cyborg for the night. First, eight electrodes are taped (yeah, taped) to various parts of your body. These measure your breathing and muscle contractions during the night. That’s not too bad, although for a guy like me with just a little bit of hair, well, I wasn’t looking forward to taking these electrodes off.

Nothing, and I mean nothing could have prepared me for the hell that was the head wiring harness. Eleven electrodes get attached to your head, you know, for brain activity. Which there’s a lot of when you have 19 electrodes attached to you and a person watching you sleep. Trust me, your mind wanders.

First, the technician scrubs each electrode point on your head and face with some noxious grit that seems like it should only be used in one’s garage after changing the oil on your car. Then the electrodes are taped in place, and the wires are taped in place, so now your head movement is restricted, and you feel like this should all be giving you super human strength or intelligence.

Then comes the nose thing. You’ve seen it in the movies. That plastic tube draped over the ears and under the nose? In hospitals it delivers oxygen. In the sleep study it catches snot. Er, it measures the pressure of breathing through your nose.

Ah, so now you’re totally wired. Lay back, oh, don’t forget this clip on your index finger! That measures the oxygen level in your blood. Now you’re laying in bed. On your back. Never mind that you usually sleep on your stomach (or side). The doctor would like to get some readings while you’re on your back. The technician tucks you in and plunges you into darkness. Then, you hear the voice:

“Open your eyes. Good. Close your eyes. Good. Blink five times in a row. Good”

You cycle through a number of commands designed, I’m sure, to calibrate the brain wave readouts with are no doubt being cataloged in a file in the master control room. After about five minutes, you’re done.

“Goodnight!”

Yeah, good night. Ha! You will never experience a more miserable night of sleep in your life.

You lay there. On your back. Wearing an inordinate amount of uncomfortable wiring, all of which makes it impossible to move. I rolled over, slowly, trying hard not to displace a wire. Then came a knock at the door.

“Um, come in?”

Seems I’d dislodged an electrode on my head when I moved. Great. Now I’m paranoid about moving. So all night, you are uncomfortable, self-conscious, and wired… I’m amazed that anyone comes out of this place sleeping “normally”.

Well, eventually morning came. If you’d like to simulate the experience at home, tape a dozen wires to your head, another half-dozen or so to your body, grab some fishtank tube and wrap it around your nose, then lay back, and have your spouse stand over you with a video camera.

Sweet dreams!

Well, as luck would have it, they need to get 2 hours of continuous sleep for the study to be accurate. And it took all night for them to get that from me, so they never got to the second half of the “split study”. Hoorah! That means I got to go back!! Whoo hooo!!

And the results? Frightening. Turns out I was actually not breathing 47 times per hour! And by “not breathing” I mean, I would stop breathing completely, for 10 seconds or longer. The result was that I was “aroused” in the medical sense of the word (meaning I might not remember being awake, but my brain came out of sleep) 506 times during the night… nine of those times were for 15 seconds or more. And I do remember those. Every goddamn second of them.

Next: Part II, I am Darth Vader.

Moving in with your partner often means duplicate things: CDs, books, kitchen gadgets, and even living creatures. But unlike having an extra toaster, you can’t just give your extra feline friends to the Salvation Army. And so it came to pass that Kristyna and I shared our living space with not one, not two, but four, count ’em, four long haired cats.

Not only do we have four long haired cats, combined, they pretty much cover the entire visible spectrum of fur. Alex is black and white, Simon is “shaded” silver. Stella is a tortie, and Emily is a calico. Black, white, grey, silver, brown, red. There is no surface in our house nor clothes in our closet which do not bear visible cat hair of some kind.

Last summer, we had heard of a technique which could not only help eliminated stray hair, but also those hairballs that are so pleasant to step on in the wee hours of the morning on a bathroom run. As a bonus, it would also help the cats cool down. That technique is the “Lion Cut”. Now, if you haven’t seen a formerly long haired cat who has been “Lion Cut” let me assure you, it will inspire fits of laughter. The poor cat is shaved pretty much to the skin all over, but with some hair left on the lower portion of their legs, a tuft of hair at the end of their tail, and of course, their “mane”. Needless to say, three of our cats hated their new do, and one (Stella) loved it.

Well, humor aside, the other benefits of a shaved pussy quickly became apparent; we did indeed see fewer hairballs, and magically, only some of the surfaces in our house still showed cat hair! Clearly, the Lion Cut was worth the $50 per cat we had spent.
Summer past and winter came. We let the cats keep their natural hair during the colder months, but then spring came, and in Chicago, lasted about 3 days before we plunged into summer heat. It was time: shave the cats.

This time, however, the economy wasn’t do well (it still isn’t, as the time of this writing, may your reading find you in better times). So money was tight, and the cats needed to be shaved again… so I announced to my fiancé “You know, $50 per cat seems awfully steep. How hard can it be to shave a cat? I have some good clippers, and it would save us a ton of money.”

My fiancé looked up from her computer and said, “What?”

“I’m going to shave the cats myself. It’ll save us $200!”

She responded with hysterical laughter.

A little miffed by her lack of confidence, to the bathroom I went and set up my little cutting station in the bathtub. I had my clippers, my kitty shampoo, my towels, etc. all ready to go. Now for the cats.

The first cat was our oldest, and our grumpiest. Surely, I thought, she will be the worst. So I started with her. She growled and whined, but overall, was a pretty copacetic kitty. I was able to do her underside, and even the dreaded “potty cut” without too much trouble. When I was done, I washed her, dried her, and sent her on her way.

Thinking the worst was over, I grabbed my little angel, Alex. Okay, he’s hardly a little angel. He’s a co-dependent, jealous beast who pees on my bed if I come home smelling of another cat. But he also likes to play in the shower when I get out and takes a bath okay, so I figured he would be easier.

Ha.

I got Alex when he was a kitten and, because I don’t believe in it, I had never had him de-clawed. Normally, I put Soft Paws on him, but he had a few missing as I started to shave. Big mistake. It didn’t take long for me to realize that Alex was going to be trouble. It might have been the growling, but I suspect it was the blood coming from my arms that really clued me in. I tried to reason with him, “It will be over sooner if you cooperate. It doesn’t hurt, see? When we’re done, I’ll give you a treat.” But Alex was having none of it. What took me half an hour with Emily was taking well over an hour with Alex. But I persevered. Soon he was shaved and we moved on to the bath. By this time, I was about as wet as he was, drenched in sweat from all the kitty wrasslin’

I though the worst was surely over. After all, Simon and Stella were both much smaller than Emily or Alex, and they were pretty good natured cats. I think the heat was making me delirious, because it slipped my mind that one of our nicknames for Stella is “Squirmy Girl”.

Perhaps you’ve heard of Hell Hounds? The beasts that guard the gates of Hades? Well, let me introduce you to one in disguise, she takes the earthly form of a cat, and her name is Stella.

She growled, she hissed, and worse, she bit. And she did this all while writhing and squirming. Greased pigs are easier to hold than this cat. She would alternate between trying to bite me and bite the clippers. After an *hour* of wrestling and clipping, wrestling and clipping, I had her one-half shaved… trying to hold her was like trying to hold a ten-pound water snake… she’s lucky I didn’t have a bench clamp handy. And I was extremely lucky that she had been de-clawed. Had she not come into my life minus claws, she would have surely eviscerated me there in the bathroom.

I was more determined than ever to complete the job. I was soaking in sweat in our hot little bathroom, I was bleeding from many scratches, hair was *everywhere* and she was only 3/4 shaved. She was howling, twisting, and snapping. Beware the Jabberwocky? With jaws that bite and claws that catch? Fuck the Jabberwocky. Beware Stella. It was a standoff. She finally escaped my grasp and stood at the door, staring me down with the fires of hell illuminating her eyes.

Well, she’s still only 3/4 shaved. I just had to give up. She was the last. Our youngest kitty escaped the ordeal altogether. I had not the strength to go on. And I still had to give her a bath.

Licking my wounds, I managed to give her a bath. Or at least to wet her hair down and get rid of the clippings. When she was done, she shot out the door and I collapsed on the bathroom floor.

Never, never, never ever again will I bitch about paying someone else to groom the cats.

Don’t ever shave your body. Really, trust me on this one. No good can come of it.

Okay, I suppose that there are exceptions to this rule: Olympic swimmers, Mr. Universe contestants, exotic dancers. Members of those professions can violate this rule if they so choose. But let me tell you, as a hairy man, I recommend against it.

I know all of this first hand because of a party I attended last week. My friend Sylvia was having a birthday party, and being a lover of theme parties, she chose “Cross-dressing” as the theme for this particular evening.

Now, I love a good party. I’m the type of individual that really loves to go all out and theme parties really give me a chance to shine. So when I got the invitation to this particular party, my mind was a flutter with ideas. Being a large, hairy man, I knew that I would really have to go the extra mile to win first prize at this one, and go the extra mile I did.

I selected a hot little purple satin number, complete with eye shadow, lipstick and nail polish to match. It was divine! Silky and spaghetti strapped, I knew I’d be the hit. However, it also showed quite a bit of my skin and quite a bit of that skin was covered in bushy man-hair.

Well, I knew that no woman (or respectable cross-dresser) would allow this to stand, so I knew what I had to do: shave my body. Never again. Blinded by my desire to be sexy, I rush headlong into the most uncomfortable experience in a long time.

First mistake: Nair.

I had no real idea what exactly Nair was, and I certainly had no concept of how it worked. I thought I did. I was horribly, horribly wrong. See, all I knew was that I really didn’t like shaving, period, which is why I usually sport a beard. So the idea of shaving my whole body was pretty unappealing. However, I knew that if I used Nair, I could bypass the pain of cutting myself and razor burn. Oh, sweet, sweet razor burn. How I long for razor burn.

I was so happy that I’d thought of Nair. I wouldn’t be wasting razor blades: just wipe on, wipe off! Hair be gone! So I came home from Target, pink bottle in hand, all ready for my depilatory adventure. I squeezed a little bit out onto my arm, rubbed it on my arm hair and waited. After five minutes, I rinsed the arm off, and viola! No hair! I was psyched! This was going to be nice and easy!

So I stripped down, hopped in the shower, and began to smear Nair all over my body, not thinking about silly little things, like nipples. I stood there, waiting for the Nair to do it’s chemical wonder, when my whole body began to tingle and get warm. Warmer and warmer. Soon, my nipples were hot and suddenly it occurred to me that perhaps, just perhaps, smearing the Nair all over my body might have been a mistake. So I wiped the Nair off my nipples, but decided to leave it on the rest of me.

A quick test showed that the Nair wasn’t having the desired effect on my chest hair, it still wasn’t ready to come off, so I kept waiting. And waiting. And waiting. Now, during this time, my skin was getting pretty hot, and the directions said, don’t leave it on longer than 10 minutes, so it was time for this crap to come off. On came the shower, and off came my hair.

Or most of it.

Seems some of my hair is Nair resistant. I have no idea why, it’s not like I built up a resistance to Nair from repeated exposure. I guess I just have good genes. So, now I was mostly hairless, but had several patches of extremely irritated skin. In retrospect, I’m amazed that a chemical compound that dissolves hair can even be used on skin, but I digress.

Second mistake: the razor.

So, I had these patches of Nair resistant hair to deal with, and a patch of hair on my back that needed to be dealt with, too. So out came the razor. Bring on the razor burn. Unbeknownst to me, Nair makes skin very sensitive and subject to razor burn. So slowly, and painfully, off came the remaining hair.

(Allow me to interject here a note about true friendship: Anyone can help you move, make you dinner, cheer you up when you’re feeling down. But a true friend, a genuine true friend is one who will shave your back. Thanks, Mikey. 🙂

Finally, I was ready. Showered and clean shaven, I slipped into my silky drawers and got ready for the party. That’s when I discovered some interesting, body shaving facts:

1. Body hair does help keep you warm. I’ve never been so cold in the summer in my life.
2. Clothes feel weird on bare skin.
3. Shaving your entire body and putting on a silky dress will make you a hit at the party.
4. It is absolutely not worth it.

So here I sit, itching madly as the regrowing hair pokes out of my skin, irritating 70% of my entire body. Even if Ihad know the sheer terror of the shaving experience, nothing could have prepared me for the hell that I endured as the hair returns.

Little did I know that I would be uncomfortable between the sheets without my hair buffer. And how ill prepared I was for the pin-pricks of stubble over my entire body as my natural fur returned. I sit around at work scratching my legs. And my arms. And my chest. And my back. Dante never envisioned a circle of hell this unspeakable.

So if you’re ever thinking about shaving your body: don’t. Trust me on this one. It’s just not worth it. The next time someone invites you to a cross-dressing party, forget skimpy. Forget sexy. Think Victorian.