Near Fatal Conceit

It's the kind of news that I don't really want or need on a three-day weekend. A new study finds that going long periods without sleep can lead to a sort of "sleep debt" that cannot simply be undone with a little extra snoozing from time to time. All of that time I have spent anticipating a moment in the not-too-distant future where I could "sleep in" has been wasted, if science is to be trusted on this matter. It's pretty much a no-brainer to suggest that going a full day, the twenty-four hour kind, will cause a person's performance to slip, but the study says it "can drop to the level of someone who is legally drunk."
Okay Mister Science, then how would you explain the following anecdote: As a freshman at Colorado College, I was up late one night studying for my Art History final. We were on the block schedule there, which meant that we took one class at a time, and we were responsible for a semester's worth of material for every four weeks. This meant I was trying to cram half of Janson's History of Art into my head for easy access the following morning. Then came the knock at the door. "Dollar Pitchers at Benjamin's Basement."
I glared at the closed door. Darren was out there, taunting me. "Go away," I yelled.
After a carefully timed pause, another knock. Then, "Beatles Night."
I looked at my book, the color plates shining in the light from my desk lamp. I looked back at the door. Silence. Then back to the book. I flipped through the pages I had left. I had just passed Rembrandt and knew the big turn was coming before the Impressionists and Expressionists and the Post-Impressionists.
Another knock. I slammed the book shut and grabbed my jacket. Before his knuckles could rap once more, I stared Darren down. "Okay. Let's go."
It was a magical night, as most nights in Benjamin's Basement were, but this was enhanced by a non-stop flood of sound of the Boys from Liverpool. We drank. We sang. We drank and sang some more. We enjoyed ourselves as much as we were capable of back then, and when the last notes of "Abbey Road" wound up the evening's entertainment, it wasn't evening anymore. It was the wee hours of the next morning. Upon returning to my dorm room, I collapsed on my bed. Drunk, I still was fully aware of the five hours of sleep I was going to need before the alarm woke me to face the exam I had blithely ignored.
Sure enough, when the radio came on at seven, I did some hasty math, and determined that fifteen more minutes would not save me, and I was better off dragging myself to the shower and swallowing a handful of aspirin. Breakfast was out of the question. When I teetered into Packard Hall to take my seat, the lights were already dimmed for the upcoming series of slides that we were expected to identify and explain in the larger context of the History of Art. I remember being grateful for the dark, and I proceeded to scrawl furiously in my blue book, working primarily on adrenaline and the thought that these could be my last few moments on earth.
It was all over so fast, I don't remember everything that I wrote. I do recall walking out into the midday light and wondering if I might make it back to my dorm before what was left of my brain burst into flame.
I don't know if I ever got those hours of sleep and study I should have had back. I slept until dinner and did the best I could with the SAGA food service, surrendering to the comfort of red Jello. Then it was over. I took my four day break and came back to read the news: I got an "A." As the years went by, I was tempted to reproduce the results of that experiment time and again on the eve of major tests and exams. But doing so just made me tired. And smug.