I recently went to a cocktail party in Paris that featured an electric violinist, a tarot-card reader, and bowls of chicken fingers lining the banquet tables. By the time I returned to my room, at a hotel called La Fantaisie, I was hungry, what with the chicken fingers I didn’t eat, and a little jet-lagged. On my pillow was a small packet, which immediately lit up the chocolate receptors in my brain. No such luck. Because this was 2024 and the hotel was new and stylish, the packet held sleep gummies. Next to it was a satin eye mask embroidered with the words Bonne Nuit. And a bonne nuit it was.
The quest for a better sleep is everywhere, but it wasn’t always so pressing. In the 90s, power players bragged about how little they slept (four hours, said Martha Stewart; three, one-upped Arianna Huffington). In the 2010s, it was how much (8 hours, Huffington revised; 12 on average, said LeBron James). And just last year, Dakota Johnson jacked that to 14. Why bother getting out of bed? Besides, isn’t everyone except James walking around in somnambulist cosplay anyway, passing off their pajamas and nightgowns as legit garb?
