It’s 3 a.m. I’ve tossed and turned since going to bed four hours earlier. The sheets are twisted around my feet and tying me to the bed in some obscure knot that I failed to learn for my Webelos badge in Cub Scouts 60 years ago. And now I don’t know how to either untie the knot in my sheets or to start a fire from kindling. I’m in deep trouble. 

But, really, does it matter?

I started tossing and turning and staring at the ceiling around 2004. Following the latest medical guidance and peer reviewed studies, I knew even back then that I had to get to bed at the same time every night and wake up at the same time every morning. Good sleep hygiene, they said. So off to bed the same time every night, and every night . . .  I stare at the ceiling for hours . . . and then I get up at the same time every morning. See, I’m the poster child of sleep hygiene without in fact sleeping.  

But my late-night ruminations have changed as I’ve aged. Now that I’m an old man, I try to focus on the fun topics of dying alone, dying in pain, and oblivion. Trust me, in just the right dosage, this combination of thoughts will ultimately drive you out of your tangled bed and into the arms of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Perhaps your true love after all. 

But today I found a little oasis in all this tossing and turning.

Orange traffic cones and yellow ropes mark the edges of the nearly full parking lot. The dust from the gravel path is starting to rise from the many feet scuffling towards the bridge. It is early Sunday in early fall and the early risers are out in force.

My adult son and I follow the crowd around the edges of the grass parking lot to the bridge. And there’s the first clue that this isn’t going to be Sunday morning church.

Okay, here’s a grown man, an adult, hiding under the bridge. He’s dressed as a troll. Yup, from the Three Billy Goats Gruff is my guess. Did I mention that this is an adult? 

My goodness. 

I notice that I’m surrounded by people in dress up. There’s elves and fairies and wizards and witches and animals and knights and princesses and monsters and . . . a troll under the bridge. The Ren Faire at Sleepy Hollow draws a potpourri of folks in costume. 

“Okay, who is that?” I ask my son, trying not to stare. 

“Dad, that a furry, people who dress up as anthropomorphic animals. You’ll be seeing tons of them around.”

“Aren’t they hot with all that headgear? Is that a fox or a weasel? And how do they eat a walking taco while wearing that mask?”

My son shakes his head and moves slightly away from me.

I watch a falconer handle one of several birds in his stall. He promises a show later in the day. I feel like I should warn the furries.

There are scheduled events — plays, music, jousting, magic, comedy — all day long. There are blacksmiths and knitters and knife makers and costume sellers. But it is the people watching that is stunning. Nearly everyone is playing a character that is not themselves — except, of course, it is. And that character is smiled on by us all.

Hah, I’m a little slow but I finally get it. Renaissance fairs deliver on three simple promises: (1) no one is an outsider; (2) your people are here somewhere; and (3) you can safely take any persona for a spin. Pretty much the exact opposite of recent Iowa legislation. 

Cool. 

This my chance to be someone other than the dour, humorless, old man I’m identifying as these days.

Okay, out with the old . . .

. . . It’s 3 a.m. I’ve tossed and turned since going to bed four hours earlier. Of course I’m ruminating about dying alone, dying in pain, and oblivion. And my sheet is tied around me in a knot. But, in that small dark room at the back of my brain, hidden behind the furnace and the old refrigerator, is a dashing one-eyed pirate who looks vaguely like a fox.

Why not?

Joe