Drop Dead Healthy by A. Jacobs (books to read to increase intelligence .TXT) 📕

I wear a CPAP machine, it virtually eliminates my snoring. Clearly, I’m going to need one eventually.

But can my combo-pack of pillows and nasal strips buy me a few years’ time before I order it? I need another test to see. I promise to make an appointment.

Falling Asleep Faster

I am watching Dr. Oz, as I do nowadays during those interminable minutes when I’m brushing and flossing. The man makes a good point. He says the phrase “falling asleep” is a misleading one. It makes it sound too passive. You have to work at going to sleep. Strategize. You have to attack the task. Maybe “jumping asleep” would be a better phrase.

I call up Dr. Michael Breus—a sleep specialist and author of the book Good Night—to get some tips. He had plenty—a shower, because it briefly raises your body temperature, leading to a postshower drop that signals to your brain that it is time to sleep. Tart cherry juice, as it has melatonin, a chemical that regulates sleep. I should impose a curfew on myself, and turn off all TVs and computers an hour before bedtime.

But the sleep trick that worked best? Doing third-grade math problems. When I’m lying there, waiting to go to sleep, my mind usually resembles one of those shirtless perps on Cops, running all around, ranting and raving. A few years ago, I tried counting sheep, but it doesn’t work. A 2002 Oxford study showed counting sheep actually delays the onset of sleep. It’s just too dull to stop us from worrying about jobs and spouses.

Dr. Breus told me to try counting backward by three. I did. And in just a few seconds (400, 397, 394 . . .), I felt a gear in my brain click to neutral.

Counting backward by threes is just challenging enough that it keeps my interest, and boring enough that it puts me to sleep. In a couple of minutes I’m out. I’m hoping it lasts, and that my mind doesn’t become immune, like the morphing supergerms I keep reading about.

Sleeping Longer

There’s also this sophisticated secret: I go to sleep earlier.

I’d always thought I could train myself to sleep six hours, wean myself off the seven and a half hours I need to feel rested. That I failed and was always exhausted, I blamed on my own laziness.

Dr. Breus let me off the hook. He says everyone has a built-in sleep requirement. Usually from seven to nine hours, though one World War I veteran was famous for needing only one hour.

You can’t change your limit. It’s not like playing golf or drinking vodka. It doesn’t become easier with practice. If you don’t get your allotted time, you’re damaging your health and job performance.

I moved my bedtime from 1 a.m. to 11:30 p.m. It was an act of trust. I had to trust my future self that he would be more efficient tomorrow if I went to sleep now. I had to convince myself that sending postmidnight e-mails was counterproductive. Turns out I didn’t trust myself too well. Most nights I was still up at 12:30 a.m.

I got better at sticking to my new bedtime after buying a gadget called the Zeo Personal Sleep Manager for $199. This is a DIY version of the sleep clinic featured in Tim Ferriss’s book. You strap on a relatively unobtrusive headband before turning in. It measures your brain waves, and figures out how long you slept, and how well (the ratio of REM to light to deep sleep). Then the Zeo’s algorithm calculates your nightly grade, or ZQ.

What the pedometer did to my walking, the Zeo did to my sleeping—it turned it into a game. I got competitive with myself. My first ZQ score was 44 (terrible), and after a week, I got it up to 68 (not bad). In good news for the publishing industry, reading a nonelectronic book for seven minutes before turning off the light seemed to boost my score, helping me go to sleep faster and deeper. Anecdotal, but still. Our industry needs all the help it can get.

Julie borrowed the Zeo and notched up 99 her first night. Nearly two hours of restorative deep sleep! I’ve never seen her so pleased with any accomplishment. “I knew I was a great sleeper,” she said. “I need to enter a sleep competition.”

Her mother nodded proudly. “She was the only baby in the world who slept through the whole night ever since she got home from the hospital.”

Checkup: Month 19

     Weight: 159

     Average hours of sleep per night: 7.5

     Average hours sedentary per day: 4

     Chest press: 185 pounds (15 reps)

     Health blogs read daily: 6

I’m doing okay, but my grandfather isn’t. I brought Lucas and Zane to visit, and as soon as we enter, I can tell his health had gone south.

He is sitting in his recliner, his mouth more ajar than usual, his skin looser, his body more immobile. Without help, he can barely shift position.

“Is he frozen?” Lucas asks.

I blush. I try to recover by pretending Lucas was asking about the temperature, “No, he’s not cold. The heater is on. I’m sure he’s warm.”

“He looks frozen,” Lucas repeats.

Thank God my grandfather is hard of hearing.

My grandfather looks over and lights up, just a little. “What are you writing nowadays, A.J.?”

I tell him about the health book, again. Lucas picks up a green balloon in the corner. My aunt Jane tells me the physical therapist gave it to Grandpa. He’s supposed to bat it around to keep limber.

“Put it back, Lucas. It’s for Great-Grandpa.”

“No, he can play with it,” says Jane. “Play with Great-Grandpa.”

Lucas swats the balloon to his great-grandpa, who swats it back. They thump the balloon back and forth, Lucas laughing, my grandfather smiling.

It’s a trope that people become like children in old age. But there’s nothing quite like seeing it happen firsthand. My grandfather’s daughters—he has five, and one is always on hand—wipe his chin with a napkin when he drools. When his eyelids start to droop, they ask, “Who’s