When God was handing out gifts, I was apparently nodding off.
“Hey — thou on the back row — I give thee the gift of slumber,” he must have said.
OK, so sleeping is not as exciting as the gift of gab or the gift of a genius IQ. But it’s all I’ve got — unless you count the highly underrated gift of rhythmic finger tapping. (If Hollywood ever needs somebody to play Gregory Hines as a finger puppet, I’m their guy.)
Simply stated, I can sleep on demand. Some people toss and turn; I stop, drop and snore.
I have known about my gift of sleep for many years. When I was a kid, my parents would go visit their friends, Carl and Norene, on a farm near Spring Hill, Tenn. Within 30 minutes of arriving I would be curled up on the floor, unconscious, drooling on Norene’s off-white, wall-to-wall carpeting.