The alarm wasn’t due to sound until 3:00 a.m., but my body had other plans. About thirty minutes beforehand, I woke up for another trip to the bathroom.

Whether it was the third or the fifth time that night, I honestly couldn’t say. After a while, those midnight pilgrimages all begin to blur together.

I shuffled back into the bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed, and reached for the glass of water waiting faithfully on the bedside table. My left hand found it without a problem.

I took a sip, set it back exactly where it belonged, and prepared for the final maneuver of the morning, sliding back beneath the covers for whatever precious minutes of sleep remained. That’s when everything went wrong.

I reached out with my right hand to brace myself on the bedside table. Only the table wasn’t where my sleepy brain thought it was.

My hand found nothing but empty air. Before I could react, my arm disappeared into the narrow gap between the mattress and the table, folding beneath me as my full weight followed.

Gravity, always eager to make a point, took over. The right side of my face slammed squarely into the edge of the bedside table.

Well… that certainly woke me up.

For a second, I sat there wondering whether I should be angry at the table, my lack of coordination, or the fact that getting back into bed had somehow turned into an Olympic event. But the absurdity of it all was too much.

Here I was, defeated by a piece of bedroom furniture after successfully navigating yet another nocturnal bathroom expedition. Instead of cursing, I started laughing.

Sometimes that’s all you can do. The older you get, life has a way of reminding you that your greatest adversary isn’t always some grand challenge.

Sometimes it’s a bedside table patiently waiting in the dark for you to forget exactly where it is.