It’s morning.  You’re still snuggled up in your goose down cocoon as the engine that is your conscious mind sparks and begins to hum.  Allowing time for your engine to warm up, you lay there a few seconds before doing a full body stretch.  With a deep, contented sigh you think, “Man! I slept GOOD!” 

In one fluid motion, you throw off the covers, curl your body upwards, do a half-gainer with a twist, and end up sitting on the edge of the bed with your feet planted on the floor.  Your eyes slit open to half-mast.  Conscious awareness is now--mostly--complete. 

By remote, your mind leads your body to the bathroom.  After finishing the most urgent business, you find yourself standing in front of the mirror washing your hands.  You look up into the mirror above the sink. 

Annnnd…..Cue tires screeching to a halt! 

The person staring back at you in the mirror looks as if they went to a frat party and forgot the number one rule:  Never.  Ever.  Never-ever-ever…pass out drunk at the party.   Dark brown stripes and smears cover you from head to toe.  When you went to bed last night, none of these interesting markings were there.  Dumbfounded, your brain is stuck on one thought: “What the hell did I do last night??”

Two mornings ago, that was me.  Since I don’t “do” the whole Cougar thingy, I knew I hadn’t been to any frat parties.  A more likely scenario would have been if I’d fallen asleep while babysitting my easily-bored nieces and nephews who had then decided to use my body as a finger paint canvas (again).  But, since those demonically-possessed wee heathens were eleven hundred miles away with their psycho parents, that theory was out.  Could it be I am a Were-Tiger going through my first Change?  Yes, but highly doubtful.  So, what.  The.  Hell?  Right?

Like any normal person who found themselves in my position would do, I poked, picked at, smelled, and then tasted one of my new stripes.  I discovered the stripes weren’t permanent and they not only had a sweet smell but they tasted sweet, too. 

Mystified as to why I would have stenciled chocolate-based stripes and smears all over my face and body, I went back to the bedroom.   Without the fog of sleep covering my eyes, I was able to clearly see what I’d missed before: chocolate stains.  All over the comforter, sheets, and pillows on my bed.  On the nightstand and even on the carpet.  Just...everywhere! 

If anyone had walked in at that moment, taken in the state of the bedding and then looked at me?  They would have come to the conclusion that I had a really exciting, really kinky sex life.  Either that, or I needed to invest in adult diapers.  Badly. 

I do not wear diapers--yet--and I had slept alone the night before.  I think.  Though one cannot discount the possibility that a new, freaky, twenty-first century version of Casanova is roaming the mountains of the Ozarks.  And, I am a heavy sleeper.  I hate to think I sleep so deeply that I could be oblivious to a hottie armed with a bottle of Hershey’s Hot Fudge sneaking through my bedroom window and doing freaky sex stuff to me.  That would just be upsetting on so many levels.  So I moved the bedding around looking for more clues. 

Peeking out from under the bed I found a large plastic mixing bowl.  Inside the mixing bowl was what appeared to be crusted remnants of chocolate cake batter.  I also found a spoon covered in dried chocolate (under my pillows).  Had I also uncovered a snoring man, the freaky sex stuff would have been a plausible explanation.  And, I would have been pissed that I didn’t remember anything! 

Unfortunately, there was no man hiding in the ocean of goose down.  Just my cat, Badger, who looked at me like she saw me dipped in chocolate every morning and so, could I please stop screwing around and feed her?

Since none of the evidence I’d uncovered thus far jogged my memory, I grabbed the bowl and the spoon and headed toward the kitchen to drop them off and feed Badger.  Because, yeah, everyone feeds the cat while trying to remember why they bathed in chocolate and then went to bed.  

Another what-the-hell moment hit as I walked into the kitchen.  The island looked like a disaster area.  There was dried chocolate everywhere--including on the island chairs and the floor.  An empty box for Pillsbury fudge brownies, an electric mixer, egg shells, and a knocked-over bottle of oil laid in the middle of the caked on, crusted up mess.  

I’d love to blame the mess on someone else but it's just me and the cat here playing Grizzly Adams at the family lake house.  So unless Badger grew opposable thumbs, there was only one suspect.  Me.  And I had absolutely, positively, no memory of having done this!!  No memory of getting up.  No memory of pulling out the ingredients and--literally--throwing them together.  No memory of taking the bowl to bed.  Nada. 

Prior to waking up, my last memory had been of getting up to take a sleeping pill (Ambien) because I hadn’t been able to get to sleep.  Unreal, huh?

My sister called while I was cleaning up the mess.  I told her what happened.  She then told me that, after taking an Ambien, she’d had the same thing happen to her "many times."  (Many times?!?)

Sissy said she’s awakened many a-morning to find some type of food as her new bedmate.  She has awoken several times to having a plate of food in bed with her--a full meal she had cooked (!!!) and didn‘t remember ever having cooked it! My sister said this has only happened to her when she’s taken an Ambien to go to sleep.  So, why, you may ask (as I did), does she keep taking the medication?  Well, because it makes her sleep!

So.  There we have it.  Mystery solved.  No hot sex burglar and no freaky sex stuff.  I’d just been Ambien’d.  

Life Lesson # 1,253,916:  Not all modern pharmaceuticals are my friend.  Even though the little orange pill does what it says it does, it also does some things it does not tell me about.